Page 36 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
But the gown is a problem.
The bodice is a maze of pins, and the zipper is buried under layers of fabric that I can’t reach.
“Damn it,” I mutter, tugging uselessly at the shoulder.
“Need help?” Dorian’s voice cuts through the quiet, and I spin to find him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, studying me.
My cheeks burn. “I—no, I can?—”
“Stop.” He pushes off the frame and crosses to me in three strides, his presence filling the room. “Turn around.”
His statement isn’t a request.
Hating myself for it, I obey him. Dorian’s strong fingersbrush my nape as he finds the zipper. His touch is warm, deliberate, and I tense as the gown loosens. Cool air dances across my skin, and the fabric swooshes down to a pool at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my lace panties and matching bra.
“That’s better.”
Hurriedly, keeping my back to him, I snatch up the robe and yank it on, knotting the belt as tightly as I can before facing him. “Thanks,” I manage, voice brittle.
He steps back, eyeing me as if he’s a predator sizing up prey. “I’ll give you five minutes.” In a smooth move, he angles his wrist to check his very fancy Bonds watch. “Meet me in the living room.”
I nod, retreating to the stunning ensuite bathroom.
My hair is an absolute disaster, wisps are everywhere, framing my face, and a few curls hang over one of my shoulders. Wishing I had a brush with me, wondering if there’s anything I can do to repair the damage, I lean forward.
The robe’s lapels slip a little, and I frantically pull them back together.
I take my time, stalling as long as possible.
“Isla! You’re trying my patience.”
My heart lurches to a stop before racing on.
I’ve stalled as long as possible.
This is it, the moment I’ve dreaded since he lifted that veil and saw me instead of Margaux.
Trembling, I make my way back to Dorian, clutching the robe around me as if it’s a suit of armor.
When I reach the living room, I freeze.
Brennan is standing near the fireplace, his tuxedo jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Dorian is sitting casually in an armchair, glass of whiskey in hand, one ankle propped on the opposite knee.
He’s still in his tux, but the ends of his bowtie hang loosearound his neck, and the top button of his shirt is undone, revealing a sliver of tanned skin. The flickering candlelight catches the stubble shadowing his jaw, and despite my nerves, he’s breathtaking—raw, undone, a devil in black tie.
“What—?” I choke out, glancing between them as Dorian rises from the armchair, setting his whiskey glass on the table with a soft clink.
“Brennan will be staying with us.” Dorian’s voice is casual as if he’s announcing the weather. “Honeymoon’s for three.”
My stomach drops. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Dorian’s gaze hardens, pinning me in place. “Take off the robe, Isla.”
Instead, I grip the lapels tighter as terror spikes through me. He can’t mean this—any of it.
“You heard me.” His voice is silk over steel, unyielding. “Take. It. Off.”
