Page 4 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
Not relenting, he leans close. “You’d better not piss Vale off.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that I receive no encouragement or other pretty words.
Too soon, we’re standing at the top of the aisle, and I stare down the impossibly long stretch of cream carpet that leads to my future. And the man I’m about to trick.
Next to him is Brennan. How rich that a criminal who looks like a thug is Vale’s best man.
This can’t be real, and I force back a hysterical laugh.
Please God, let me wake up and find this has been nothing but a nightmare. I want to get back to my cat, my books, and planning for the fall semester. The life I had yesterday.
Instead, the quartet transitions seamlessly into “Wagner’s Bridal Chorus.” I’m one minute closer to meeting my doom.
The moment I take my first step, the guests rise as one, and then they turn to face me, all eyes on me, tracking my every movement.
I’m a fraud: exposed, vulnerable, certain that at any moment someone will cry out that I’m not Margaux, that the Davenports are trying to pull off an unthinkable deception.
I miss a step when I see Dante Moretti—the Mafia family’s underboss—standing right in front of me, just a few rows back, his expression unreadable. But he nods at my father and offers a chilling smile.
Dear, dear Lord.Is my future groom beholden to the mob?
My father’s grip becomes excruciatingly painful.
“Walk.”
My steps are short and uncertain as I move forward.
The man I don’t want to marry is in front of the altar, facing me, wearing a tailored black tuxedo that highlights his broad shoulders and commanding presence. His posture is relaxed but authoritative, every inch an asshole billionaire mogul with the political aspirations that I’m supposed to help him achieve.
Beside him, Brennan is a hulking presence. His matching tux doesn’t take away from the furrows between his brows. He’s scanning the crowd, watching, assessing.
The way they stand shoulder to shoulder speaks of years of absolute trust. But what kind of man trusts a criminal?
Oh, yes, I think wildly. The one I’m supposed to sleep with. The one I’m supposed to produce children with.
A chill chases through me, made worse by the way Dorian sweeps his gaze over me.
Even through the veil, his scrutiny hits me like a physical weight. As he studies me, his eyes narrow, as if he’s cataloging every inch. Does he suspect? Can he tell just from my walk, my posture, my frame, that I’m not his intended bride?
My veil has turned everything into a soft-focus haze of ivory, but I can still make out the angular planes of his face, the calculating intelligence in his steel-gray eyes.
The music abruptly stops, and the silence crashes into me.
How have I gotten this far?
With a smile meant for the photographer who signals that she’s satisfied with the shot, my father steps aside and sits in a chair next to my mother.
Dorian moves into position without saying a word.
Thank God.
Because if I had to respond, I’m sure he’d discover my deception.
The minister’s voice breaks through the quiet. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of God and these witnesses, to join Dorian Vale and Margaux Davenport in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate, instituted of God, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church.” He pauses, his next words heavy with tradition. “If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
My pulse thunders in my ears.
Please. Please. Someone say something. Anything.
