Page 58 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
I hadn’t expected that from a shy, bookish intellectual.
He drags a hand over his face, and his scars pull tight. “But she’s an innocent, Dorian—doesn’t deserve this shit. Davenport’s dirty, sure—escorts, blackmail, whatever he’s hiding—but she’s clean. And so goddamn trusting. And you’re out here playing king with her old man’s debt and cleaning up after Moretti’s goons. She’s not Margaux—she didn’t sign up for this.”
I lean against the mantel. Even though I maintain a cool facade, my chest tightens.
Her innocent green eyes flash in my head, and I see them as they’d been when I lifted her veil—wide and wild. “She’s tougher than you think,” I say, voice steady. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have had any part in her father’s charade.
“Are you fucking paying attention?”
Earlier, when I realized she wasn’t my intended wife, I dragged her aside. I thought she’d run. But she met my gaze. Panicked but resolved. “She asked me to go through with it.”Begged me.
“Fuck you. Tell yourself whatever you want, but you know damn well she didn’t have a choice.”
I pick up the whiskey and sip it, letting it burn—discipline be damned.
“She’s not some pawn to shield your Senate run—she’s ours, damn it.” His voice drops, rough in a way that I haven’t heard since that last night with Lena. “There’s been enough loss.”
“As if I fucking don’t know that? Goddamn you.”
“Clean up your act. Fast. Don’t drag her into this.”
A creak cuts through the night air.
I quickly turn, my gut lurching.
Isla is there, her robe knotted tight around her slim frame, dark hair spilling wild, her eyes wide and uncertain.
She’s watching, silently. Faint light catches the flush on her cheeks.
How long has she been there? How much of this raw, painful argument has she overheard?
“Drag me into what?”
Shit.She’s heard more than I ever would have wanted.
Brennan stiffens—I feel his guilt spike, heavy as mine.
I step forward, whiskey still in hand, voice cold, steady. “Nothing, little one—just business. Go back to bed.” No softness—can’t give it, not now, not with her staring at me as if she wants to expose my deepest and darkest secrets.
She doesn’t move.
Stubborn, stupidly fearless woman.
I place my drink on the mantel too sharply. Then I close the gap and capture her shoulders, my grasp firm and demanding.
Her robe is warm, and her body is soft. But beneath her bravado, I feel her faint trembling.
She brings up her chin to meet my gaze without flinching.
“You’re right about a lot.” She swallows deeply as if seeking courage. “I am stronger than I appear.”
Then she looks at Brennan, and her expression softens.
Damn it. The way she studies him stabs me. I want that too.
“And you’re absolutely right on another point,” she tells him. “I didn’t want this. Any of it.”
Her words are another gut punch.
