Page 145 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
They disappear inside, retreating behind closed doors like kings in their war room. It’s a masculine space, dark and moody, paneled in rich mahogany with blackout shades that keep the world at bay. A single desk lamp usually casts a low amber glow, and the air smells of aged leather, old secrets, and expensive whiskey—Bonds, I think.
Usually, I let them go without question, sinking into my bath or working in the cozy room they gave me—the one they calledminewithout asking if I wanted it. Sometimes I work on my syllabi. Sometimes I fall asleep curled up with Calypso on the velvet settee, the television murmuring soft romantic lies I pretend to believe.
But they always leaveafter.
After lovemaking, when I’m too tired or too pliant to ask what they’re up to, when my body is still humming and my heart dazed enough to ignore the click of the door locking behind them.
But tonight is different. Despite their earlier passion for me and the way Dorian backed me into an alcove in a public space, they didn’t peel my dress off and fuck me ragged.
And then there’s the text.
While part of me wants to retreat, to bury my headbeneath the covers and pretend none of this is happening, I can’t.
So I step into the hallway barefoot, still damp from the bath, the silk robe clinging to my skin. Determinedly I walk toward the office—their office—for the first time, pulse thudding louder with each step.
Down the hallway, I see the door is closed.
Of course it is.
A fortress, just like Brennan wanted.
Refusing to back down, I continue on, the marble cool under my bare feet, the city’s lights glinting through the windows.
Behind the massive, reinforced door, their voices are low and tense.
I grab the knob and give it a decisive twist. Then I push my way in.
Dorian’s behind his desk, whiskey in hand, his tie loose, his hair mussed like he’s been raking his fingers through it.
Brennan leans against a bookshelf, his navy jacket off, sleeves rolled up, exposing his corded forearms.
As I enter, they look in my direction, their gazes sharpening.
“Little one.” Dorian sets down his glass, his gaze raking over me, lingering on my collar, my ring. “You were incredible tonight.”
Brennan moves closer, his hand brushing my arm, his touch grounding. “Dorian’s right. You were spectacular.”
I know what they’re doing. Trying to distract me like they usually do. Now I recognize how often they do this.
This time, I refuse to allow their tactics to work.
My throat tight, I hold up my phone. “I got another text.”
“Fuck.” Dorian’s response is quick and lethal.
“Someone was watching me.”
Brennan extends his arm, silently asking for the device, but I refuse to turn it over.
Then, even though my voice shakes, I go on. “And I overheard Everett talking to another man who was saying my father has an escort ring. I want answers. Now.”
Dorian clenches his jaw, and his eyes darken.
Brennan drops his hand and forms it into a fist.
Between us, silence hangs, supercharged, like the air before a storm.
Brennan flicks his gaze to Dorian, and silent communication passes between them. I notice the hesitation, the weight of whatever they’re holding back.
