Page 124 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
I blink. “Celebrate?”
“You didn’t think the day was done.” He raises a brow. “Did you?”
He sweeps his gaze over me with such heat that goose bumps chase up my arms, and my nipples harden.
His intent is clear.
But I have no idea what he has in store for me…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Isla
How is this my life?
I should be at school today. Instead, I just found a spectacular engagement ring, and I’m now seated in a helicopter. The blades are slicing through the hot, humid air, and I’m gripping Dorian’s hand.
Still, neither Dorian nor Brennan will tell me where we’re going.
Below us the Gulf sparkles, a vast expanse of turquoise and sapphire. A barge appears in the distance, its name painted in bold white letters:The Landing.
We begin to descend, and my tummy plunges. Are we heading toward that floating thing?
“You’re doing fine,” Dorian reassures me through the headset I’m wearing.
Doesn’t feel that way to me.
With a gentle thud, the helicopter lands on the moving platform.
The side door slides open, and warm, salty air rushes in.Brennan exits first, scanning the surroundings before offering his hand. I take it, stepping onto the barge. Dorian’s hand is steady on my back.
Nearby, a sleek yacht waits, its white hull gleaming under the midday sun.Elysium.A paradise for heroes.
Moments later, we transfer to a tender boat that ferries us across the short distance.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I tell Brennan.
He shrugs. “It’s our honeymoon.”
This day has gone from surreal to shocking.
As we board the yacht, a crew member greets us with chilled champagne flutes. Dorian accepts one for me, pressing it into my hand, his fingers lingering on mine.
“Everything is ready for you on deck,” the crew member says, gesturing toward the aft. “All your bags are in the primary cabin, Mr. Vale.”
Dorian’s lips curve. “Good. Isla’s things are packed as I instructed?”
“Yes, sir. Clothing, toiletries, and a swimsuit, per your specifications.”
I raise an eyebrow, but Dorian only smiles confidently as he guides me toward the deck.
Now that we’re aboard with beverages, the yacht gets underway, gliding smoothly through the Gulf. The waves are gentle but insistent, rocking us just enough to remind me that we’re no longer on solid ground.
The deck is shaded by a taut canvas canopy, offering relief from the relentless sun—but the heat still clings, heavy and sensual. The air is fresh with salt and maybe the faint tang of polished teak.
“Lunch is ready, if you are, sir?” a steward asks Dorian.
At his nod, the steward leads us to a table set at the center of the shaded aft deck. Crisp white linens flutter slightly in the breeze, and silverware glints under the diffused light.
