Page 207 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

“If life gets better than this,” I murmur against her hair, “I don’t know how.”

Brennan nods.

Without opening her eyes, she smiles. “Let’s keep trying.”

Damn straight. I press my mouth to her hair. “Yes, wife.” My little one. My forever love.

I’ve never meant anything more.

EPILOGUE

Isla

“You doing okay?”

Dorian’s voice is quiet, pitched for me alone, the low timbre cutting through the hum of movement on the other side of the curtain. My heart answers before I can—kicking hard against my ribs, betraying me.

How like Dorian to be the one checking on me when it’s his name on the banner, his face on every handheld sign. When, in minutes, all eyes will be on him—as they should be. Yet here he is, focusing on me as if the outcome of the night depends not on his speech, but on my steadiness.

I curl my fingers, feeling the cool weight of the opal on my right hand and the sharp brilliance of the pink diamond on my ring finger. About a month ago, I realized I wanted both rings as reminders of everything we fought for, and everything we’ve risked.

With a possessive smile, he slid it back into place. Where it belonged.

The symbols are heavy tonight, and so is the moment.

“Little one?”

I draw a breath. “Yeah.” My response is softer than I intended, and I’m sure he’s barely heard me over the band playing to the audience that’s gathered to celebrate his run for the Senate.

But the truth is, this is complicated. I’m ready for tonight, and yet I’m not. Excited and terrified. Grateful and still in awe of him.

He considers me for a second longer, and I know—God, I know—he reads every contradiction in my eyes. His hand finds mine, warm, grounding, steady. The contact doesn’t just calm my pulse—it reminds me who I belong to, who we are together.

He strokes a thumb across my palm before he lets go. The touch is just enough to make me want to hold on.

The low rumble of voices swells from the other side of the curtain. A burst of applause follows—sharp, sudden, reminding me we’re seconds away from stepping into the light.

The door behind us opens and Celeste slips inside, all sleek black lines and composed efficiency, her gaze sweeping over us in one precise pass. “Everything’s in order out front.” With the way she’s orchestrated the event, nothing dares go wrong. She showed up at eight a.m. with an entourage and hasn’t left yet.

How she still looks fresh twelve hours later is beyond me. Even though I spent four hours with a dresser, a hair stylist, and a makeup artist, I still wonder if I’m put together well enough.

“We’re about ready here,” Dorian informs her.

The side door opens again, and Brennan steps in. Black suit, open collar, no tie, but the look in his eyes is all business. I know without asking that he’s been with security, checking every exit, every face on the floor. He stops justinside, gaze locking on mine for a beat before sweeping the room.

“All clear.” His tone is no-nonsense, syllables clipped as he looks at Dorian. Then he returns his attention to me. “I’ll be right behind you. Then when you’re on stage, don’t lose sight of me.”

I nod.

Nearby, Willow Mills—the wife of the man who emceed our wedding reception—is being fitted with a lapel microphone. The celebrated philanthropist is Celeste’s pick to introduce me tonight.

She and Everett, along with his team, spent days curating the speaker list, and everyone had been carefully selected. There’s a congressman, a retired Secretary of State, business leaders, other educators like me, a rabbi, a minister. Somehow Dorian has been made to look like an avenging angel who will represent the Great State of Texas in Washington better than anyone else.

Willow has effortless poise, and I’ve seen her at other events. Her confidence is legendary, and I respect her tremendously. She’s gorgeous, radiant in a sleeveless column dress the color of midnight and diamond studs that don’t need to compete with her.

As soon as the AV person is finished with her, she looks at me and smiles. It’s not a dazzling public one, but a private, we’ve-got-this smile of solidarity that women give each other when it’s time to lift and be lifted.

“Let’s go show them who they’re voting for,” Willow says when she reaches me, hands light on my forearms. “You look like the wife of a Senator.” She sweeps her gaze over me. “Or a woman who could also be a Senator. Or more.”