Page 75 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
“Don’t say that out loud,” I warn. “She thinks she’s a princess.”
Brennan grins. “She probably gets treated like one.”
I place my purse on a nearby coffee table, just like I always do, and I glance around, a little embarrassed by the chaotic mess strewn everywhere. When I’d dashed out the door to my wedding, I had no idea I’d be coming back with two billionaires.
My secondhand sofa sits against the far wall. My mismatched bookshelves tower beside it. There’s a TV on the wall, but I have no idea the last time I turned it on.
Do they see my sanctuary as something beneath me? Or just a grad student’s cave?
A blur of smoke-gray fur darts from the kitchen nook—Calypso, my little tabby rescue. She’s about eight pounds of power, and her fur has lovely, swirling stripes. She barrels toward me, her purrs rumbling loud enough to drown out the hum of the window-unit air conditioner.
Her soft head brushes my calves as she weaves between my legs.
I crouch to scratch behind her ears, and her pale green eyes half-close in feline bliss.
“She seems harmless enough,” Brennan observes.
But then those sharp eyes flick up, narrowing at Dorian and Brennan crowding the doorway. Her tail puffs, a bristly bottlebrush, and a low hiss grumbles through the air, as wary as it is sharp.
I freeze, half-expecting her to bolt, but she holds her ground, glaring at these strangers who’ve invaded her kingdom.
She’s been with me since the rainy spring that I found her, scrawny, alone, crying beneath the steps. I’ve only ever had women in my apartment, except for the building’s handyman. And when he visits, she hisses from beneath my bed.
Dorian comes closer, his broad frame shrinking the space. He glances around then crouches and extends a hand toward Calypso.
Calypso tenses, just like I do.
“Hey, little one.” His voice is surprisingly low and almost gentle.
Her whiskers twitch, but she doesn’t hiss again.
With patience that stuns me, Dorian remains where he is, waiting for the cat to approach.
Slowly she inches forward. After sniffing his fingers, her tail lowers, and the puff smooths out. She nudges his hand once, as if in a cautious truce. Then she retreats, still on guard but softening.
Traitor.
Without an invitation, Dorian enters the living room, and Brennan follows.
When Calypso spies him, her ears flatten, and she lets out another hiss. He moves toward the bookshelves, and she tracks him with her gaze. He doesn’t try to win her over, just stands there, studying the titles like they’re a puzzle.
After a moment, her curiosity seems to win out, and shepads closer to him. She sniffs his boots, then butts her head against his shin, a grudging acceptance.
I couldn’t be more surprised or happier. The fact Dorian and Brennan tolerate her and she seems to accept them makes life a little easier.
I straighten and brush the cat hair off my dress. Absently I wonder if she’s mirroring me—wary but bending to our new reality.
“Shall we get your belongings?” Dorian asks. “We have a plane to catch.”
“I didn’t ask where we’re going.”
“New Orleans.”
“Really?” I expected something extravagant, and I wondered if I’d need to grab my passport.
“We’ll take a longer trip when we’re settled as a couple, but I want to keep up appearances.”
Of course he does. The happily in love future senator.
