Page 84 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
“Enchanté, ma chère.”She takes my hands, her grip surprisingly firm. “I’m Mademoiselle Giselle. Welcome to le Coin Secret de Giselle.”
Silently I translate asGiselle’s Secret Corner.The name couldn’t be better. If I’d wandered in, I would never have suspected what lay hidden behind the tourist facade. “Thank you.” My voice is thinner and higher than I’d like. If I hadn’t had so many years of etiquette training, I wouldn’t have been able to remember my manners at all.
Still, Mademoiselle’s energy is magnetic, overwhelming, and I’m not sure if I want to lean into it or run. She releases me, but her eyes linger, as if she’s peeling back layers I didn’t know I had.
Softer as if for my ears only, she adds, “Things unfold as they’re meant to, non?” Once more she smiles. “And the heart finds its way.”
My chest locks tight. Heart? No way. Not with him.
Clearing his throat, Dorian redirects the conversation. “We’re in need of your expertise.”
His hand brushes my arm, and I fight the urge to pull away.
“Are you?”
“Garments to suit our honeymoon. And dinner tonight at Vieille Rivière.”
“Ah.” Her eyes widen. Then she smiles knowingly. “I see.”
After gesturing to the displays with a wave that sets her bracelets chiming again, she tucks her arm inside mine. “Come with me, Isla.”
Once more swept away by something I don’t understand, I’m guided to a set of drawers near the mirrors, Brennan and Dorian trailing close behind.
Moving quickly, she pulls out silks and satins in a dizzying array of colors—crimson, midnight blue, sheer black. She holds up a negligee, so thin it’s practically transparent, and I want to sink through the floor. “This would suit our lovely Isla,” she says to Dorian, as if I’m not standing right here. “And perhaps this?”
A pair of panties, barely more than a whisper of lace, dangles from her fingers.
My stomach twists as she loads the items into Brennan’s arms, but it’s Dorian’s voice that cuts through next, low and deliberate. “Perfect.” He sweeps his gaze over me before addressing Mademoiselle. “We will need everything. Bras, panties, nightgowns—things she can relax in. And pieces that she’ll be modeling during private times.”
I can’t believe this conversation is happening, and myskin prickles from embarrassment. “Not happening.” My voice is louder than I intended, and I’m not sorry.
He seems unconcerned. “I’m a very visual man, Isla. Indulge me.”
Brennan pulls out a deep plum satin chemise, its hem edged with delicate lace.“This too.” He places the garment onto the pile. Then he adds a pair of black stockings that are sheer with a faint shimmer.
When I’m sure we’ve bought out her entire stock, she says, “And something that’s appropriate for tonight…” Mademoiselle retrieves a dress that is emerald green. The neckline plunges to the navel, and the back dips so low it barely qualifies as clothing.
And there’s a comma in the price, making me gasp.
It’s stunning, yes, but it’s not me. I’ve never worn anything so revealing, so brazen. My hands tremble as I imagine stepping into it, the fabric clinging to my slight curves, leaving nothing to the imagination.
“Dorian, I can’t,” I whisper, my voice cracking. My heart’s pounding, a wild mix of nerves and temptation. He’s pushing me, stripping away every boundary I’ve clung to, and I hate how part of me wants to let him.
“You can,” he says, stepping closer, his breath warm against my temple. “And you will. For us.”
The wordobey—and how completely he’d meant it—flashes through my mind.
Mademoiselle watches us, her smile soft but piercing, like she sees straight through my panic. “It’s a bold choice,” she acknowledges, handing the dress to Brennan, who drapes it over his arm. “But you’ve strength in you, ma chère. This suits you. More than you are willing to acknowledge.”
She’s wrong. I don’t feel strong. I feel raw, exposed, teetering on the edge of chaos that I can’t control.
Mademoiselle’s gaze softens, and she steps closer, hervoice dropping. “You must get out of your own way, ma chère. The mind builds walls, but the heart knows the truth. Listen to it. Let him in—let them in—and see what blooms. You won’t be destroyed. You’ll be remade, if you allow it.”
“No…” I shake my head. Dorian would shatter me into pieces and call it art.
He places his hand on my shoulder, and I flinch, but I don’t pull away. “And now, a collar.”
He is mad. There’s no way I’ll ever wear something like that.
