The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(22)

Na?ve?

Desperate?

Stupid?

Pretty?

I swallowed, but the ball in my throat didn’t budge. I felt about as disposable as a diaper and just as desirable.

Cillian shot me an icy look.

“Go browse through your mail-order brides catalog, Cillian.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’ll let you know my answer.”

I watched him go, carrying my freedom, hopes, and choices in his designer pocket.

Knowing it didn’t matter whether I refused or accepted his offer—either choice would be a mistake.





The next day, I showed up at work in a coffee-stained dress and with bloodshot eyes. I’d called Sailor, swallowing my pride and doing what I promised not to do—ask her for a loan. But before I could even utter out the request, she told me she’d been feeling suspicious cramps in her abdomen, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

I spent my lunch break calling every cash loaner in Boston. Most hung up on me, some laughed, and a handful expressed their regret, but said they’d have to pass on my business.

I even tried calling Sam Brennan. I was met with an electronic message asking for a code to get through to him.

I didn’t have access to the most mysterious man in Boston.

Though I grew up as his younger sister’s best friend, I was as invisible to him as the rest of my friends.

Belle was at work when I got home. I was glad she was because a box waited outside her apartment door. The parcel was addressed to me, so I opened it. There were two pieces of lingerie inside.

I picked up a black lace thong, realizing inside the lingerie waited a bullet.

Byrne.

I ran to the bathroom, throwing up the very little I’d eaten.

Shoving a sleeve of crackers into my mouth, I swallowed a small chunk of cheese, and washed them down with orange juice.

I crawled into Belle’s bed, still in my work dress. It was cold and empty. The rain knocking on the window reminded me of how alone I was.

Mom and Dad had moved to the suburbs a couple of years ago. Moving in with them now would invite trouble to their doorstep—deadly trouble—and I couldn’t do it to them.

Sailor was married and having a baby, running a successful food blog and training young archers as a part of a charity foundation she started. Her life was full, complete, and good.

Ash was busy coming up with schemes to win Sam Brennan over, going to med school, and blossoming into one of the most fantastic women I’d ever met.

And Belle was making a career for herself.

Lying still in the darkness, I watched through the window as Lady Night went through all her outfits. The sky turned from midnight to neon blue, then finally, orange and pink. When the sun climbed up Boston’s high-rise skyline, inch by inch like a queen rising from her throne, I knew I had to make a decision.

The sky was cloudless.

Auntie Tilda wasn’t going to help me get out of this one. It was my decision to make. My responsibility.

Silence buzzed through the apartment. Belle hadn’t returned home last night. She was probably inside a handsome man’s bed, splaying her curves like a work of art for him to worship.

Scurrying out of bed, I padded barefoot into the kitchenette, then flicked on the coffee machine and Belle’s vintage radio. The same eighties station that never failed to lift my spirits belted out the last few notes of “How Will I Know” by Whitney Houston, followed by a weather forecast, warning about an impending storm.

There was a vase full of fresh roses on the counter, courtesy of one of the many admirers who frequented Madame Mayhem in hopes to capture my sister’s interest.

Flower Girl.

I plucked one of the white roses. Its thorn pierced my thumb. A heart-shaped blood droplet perched between the petals.

“To marry or not to marry Boston’s favorite villain?”

I plucked the first petal.

Marry him.

The second one.

Don’t marry him.

Then the third.

The fourth.

The fifth…

By the time I reached the last petal, my fingers quivered, my heart drummed fast, and every inch of my body was covered in goose bumps. I pulled the last petal, the snowy color of a wedding gown.

Fate said the last word.

Not that it mattered as my heart already knew the answer.

A decision had been made.

Now I had to face the consequences.





“Good session, Mr. Fitzpatrick. You’re one of the most talented equestrians I’ve ever seen. Mad skills, sir.” One of the pimply stable boys under my payroll staggered behind me, his tongue lapping about like an eager puppy.

I made my way from the barn back to my car, shoving my bridle into his chest along with a fat tip.

If nothing else, being filthy, immortally, disgustingly rich meant people were eager to tell me how I was the best at anything, be it horse riding, fencing, golfing, and synchronized swimming.

Not that I synchronize swam, but I was sure I’d be given a medal for it if I asked for one.

“Thanks for the tip, Mr. Fitzpatrick! You’re the best boss I’ve ever—”

“If I wanted my ass kissed, I’d go for someone curvier, blonder, and with an entirely different reproductive system,” I said cuttingly.

“Right. Yes. Sorry.” He blushed, opening the door to my Aston Martin Vanquish for me, bowing. I slid into the car, revving up the engine.