Page 6 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
My knees go weak.
No one has saved me.
Finally my husband leans in close, so close that he fills my vision and overwhelms me with his spicy, masculine scent. Motions deliberate, he reaches for my veil.
The moment of truth.
Then he lifts it.
“What in the actual fuck?”
CHAPTER TWO
Dorian
Fury, icy in its intensity, rocks me.
Somehow I managed to keep my voice low enough that only Isla, Brennan, and the minister could hear me, but the man of the cloth is wearing a lapel microphone, and I clamp my hand over it. “Turn it the hell off.”
Going pale, he does as I say. He’d better. He’s being paid a tidy sum to perform this ceremony. I didn’t trust the Davenports or their youngest daughter.
And I was right not to.
I swing to face Davenport. His face is pale and clammy, and he loosens his tie.
How in the fresh hell did he think he was going to get away with this?
And how did Isla—the woman trembling in front of me—think she could fool me for long?
The actual hell were they thinking? “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” I capture my would-be bride’s shoulders andgive her a smile that’s meant to reassure our guests, but not her.
Beside me, Brennan shifts. He’s noted the change in my posture, and he’s ready to react at my signal.
Then, not wanting this situation to get out of control, I take a breath.
Years of questionable deals with shady characters allow me to school my features into neutrality even as rage continues to build beneath my skin.
The weight of the gathered people presses against my back as they wait for the traditional reveal.
My eyes lock onto the trembling woman before me—Isla. The quiet one. The bookish one. Where Margaux is all curves and practiced grace, Isla is slight, almost fragile, with an untamed wildness in her luminous green eyes that her sister never possessed. The wedding dress hangs wrong on her frame, a glaring testament to this hasty substitution.
How did I not see this before?
Maybe because I was too damn focused on making sure my bride actually walked down the aisle.
The minister swings his gaze between us. “Shall we proc?—”
I move before he can finish, my hand closing around Isla’s wrist. Her pulse flutters against my fingers, as if she’s a trapped bird.
A ripple of whispers cuts across the crowd—confusion, speculation, the soft rustle of society’s finest sensing scandal.
“With me.” My voice is pitched low, controlled, meant for her ears alone.
Brennan steps in, his broad frame creating a wall between us and the guests. As always, he knows exactly what I need without a word being exchanged.
The minister takes a half step forward as if he’s going tojoin us. Then he obviously thinks better of it when Brennan clears his throat.
