Page 92 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

I look out the vehicle’s windows, expecting some grand restaurant marquee. Instead, we roll to a stop before a sprawling, shadowed estate, a single, vast building highlighted against the twilight.

The driver opens the door, and Brennan exits first. I slide my palm against his, appreciating his reassuring squeeze.

As I wait for Dorian, I glance around.

“Welcome to Vieille Rivière,” Dorian adds against my ear.

The building’s facade is a decadent sprawl of weathered stone and wrought iron, dripping with ivy. Red silk gleamsthrough tall windows, casting a crimson glow onto the wraparound porch where shadows seem to sway.

Dorian offers his arm, and I take it, trying to steady my shakiness against the fabric of his suitcoat. Brennan is on my right, and I tuck my elbow inside his as we all ascend the wide, weathered steps.

The porch creaks, and the breeze carries the faint tang of river water and sin.

A low, throaty jazz note curls from within, entwining with the scent of magnolia and old-world elegance.

As we approach the entrance, the massive door swings open for us, and inside, a towering figure emerges from the shadows—a broad-shouldered man with a chiseled jaw and eyes like polished obsidian, his presence as commanding as the estate itself.

I falter, my breath catching at the sheer size of him. His tailored vest hugs his frame, hinting at restrained power.

He greets Dorian with a warm, familiar clasp of hands, then turns to Brennan with a nod and a knowing smile. “Messieurs, always a pleasure,” he says, his voice a deep Cajun drawl that curls around me.

Then his knowing eyes settle on me, and I freeze, pinned by the intensity in his gaze.

As if sensing my uncertainty, Dorian reaches for my hand and turns to the man. “Allow me to introduce Isla, our wife. Bastien Cauchon is the owner of Vieille Rivière.”

Bastien offers a polite bow. “Ma belle. I’m happy to welcome you for the first of what I hope are many visits.”

If he’s scandalized by my collar, attire, of the fact I’ve been introduced as their wife, he doesn’t show it.

“As requested, Mr. Vale, your table is ready.” He leads the way, silently inviting us into the restaurant, and what I see leaves me reeling.

Men in tailored jackets and women in barely-there silksdrift past, their laughter a sultry ripple that hums through the air. Nearby a man kneels beside a chair, his head bowed, a thin leather leash trailing from his collar to the hand of a woman in crimson satin. As I watch, she offers him a bite of meat from her plate.

Heaven save me.

Her eyes meet mine for a fleeting second, and my chest tightens and my pulse slams against the collar, heat flooding my cheeks.

This isn’t a restaurant—it’s a den of velvet vice, a secret playground where power and pleasure are tangled.

A woman wearing a ridiculously tight corset strides by, a whip coiled at her hip like a threat. The decadence seeps into my skin, intoxicating, overwhelming, as Dorian and Brennan brace me between them and draw me deeper into this scandalous abyss.

As we continue through the vast, dark space, we pass more submissives that are kneeling beside chairs, leashes glinting in the chandelier light.

Surely Dorian won’t demand that from me.

Will he?

At a corner table where we can see the entire dining room, Bastien pulls back a chair for me. Before I can take a seat, Dorian shakes his head. “She’ll sit next to me.”

“Of course, sir.”

Extending his hand, Dorian indicates I should enter the booth that’s shaped like a semi-circle. As I do, he lifts the bottom of my dress up to my waist.

Stunned, I look at him and gasp.

He raises one of his dark eyebrows. “Unless you’d like to be naked.”

Oh my God. No.Frantically I shake my head.