Page 119 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

The silk of my dress clings to my skin, my nipples shamelessly peaked without a bra, just as Dorian demanded. His seed, still drying on my thighs, is a primal mark of possession, and Brennan’s scent—leather and spice—lingers on my chest where I rubbed his essence into me. I’m a canvas of their desire, and God help me, I’m not ashamed. Not anymore.

When I faced Celeste and Everett, I wasn’t just Dorian’s wife, the substitute bride shoved into a role I never wanted. I wasme—sharp, defiant, a force they didn’t expect.

I was unaccountably angry when Everett tried to warn Dorian against running. A fierce and unexpected loyalty surged in me, hot and unyielding, because Dorianwillbe extraordinary. He’s got the looks, the connections, thecharisma that commands a room, and a ruthless drive that could reshape the Senate, maybe even the country.

I know he doesn’t need me to defend him—not with Celeste’s cunning and Brennan’s unwavering strength at his side. But I spoke up not out of duty, not to play the obedient wife. I did it because I couldn’t stay silent.

Their words—secret weapon,Kingmaker—echo in my skull, mingling with the memory of Dorian’s tongue, Brennan’s hands, and the way I shattered under them. I’m not the quiet second daughter anymore, not the bookish girl hiding behind a PhD. I’m something new, something dangerous, and the power of it hums in my veins.

But there’s a shadow beneath it. Dorian’s words—I got married for the sake of this campaign—sting like a blade. I know why I’m here, why he accepted me when Margaux ran away. I’m a means to an end, a pawn in his Senate bid, maybe even the White House. Yet when he squeezed my hand under the table, pride in his eyes, it felt real. And Brennan’s quiet nod, his arm brushing mine, grounded me.

I touch the cool and unyielding metal of my collar. The beautiful piece is a reminder of my surrender. But it’s not just to them—it’s to myself, to the woman I’m becoming. Giselle’s voice whispers again: “Get out of your own way.”

Maybe I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I’m working on it.

Calypso stretches on her perch, blinking at me with lazy green eyes, oblivious to the war inside me. She licks her paw, readjusts her position, and closes her eyes again.

I should feel guilty for not spending more time with her, but Brennan has been keeping her busy, tossing play mice for her to chase, and he’s keeping her fed. Considering I hadn’t been sure how she’d react to them, I now feel like yesterday’s news. She’s clearly in love with Brennan.

I grin, not at all upset. She deserves to be spoiled and pampered.

“Ready, little one?” Dorian’s voice, low and commanding, pulls me from my thoughts. He’s leaning against the doorframe, all tailored slacks and predatory grace, his steel-gray eyes stripping me bare.

Brennan’s beside him, tie loosened, his icy gaze softer but no less intense. “We have an appointment.”

I smooth my dress, hyperaware of my nakedness beneath it, the way my body still aches from them. “Are you going to tell me where?”

Dorian’s lips curve, wicked and secretive. “You’ll see.”

Brennan offers his arm, and I take it, my fingers curling into the warmth of his sleeve. As I’m coming to expect, Dorian places his hand on the small of my back possessively as he guides me out the door.

The SUV is waiting for us, and we head back toward the New Orleans area.

Instead of going to the French Quarter as I expect, we turn onto a quiet street in the Garden District. The area is even more beautiful than I remember with sunlight filtering through towering oaks that are draped in Spanish moss. “Where are we going?”

“Almost there.”

We roll to a stop in front of an iron gate woven with jasmine. A single brass plaque reads Vignette. Nothing else.

After the experiences Dorian pulled off at Vieille Rivière and at Mademoiselle’s shop, I’m a little nervous.

Before I can ask how we’re getting in, the gate opens.

Of course it does.

The driveway is a wide arc of crushed oyster shells that crunch beneath the tires as the SUV glides to a stop under a canopy of moss-draped oaks. The driver doesn’t speak as he slips out and opens the doors with quiet efficiency.

As always, Brennan is the first to exit, and he extends a hand for me.

“This is a good surprise,” he assures me.

Skeptical, I frown.

A moment later, Dorian is at my side.

With my men flanking me, we walk up a stone path that’s lined with camellias and lush hydrangeas.

As we climb the stairs, I take in the mansion. It’s a stunning example of pure Southern Gothic elegance—Greek Revival with fluted columns and black shutters, a place that whispers of old ghosts and even older money.