Page 109 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
She smiles but doesn’t respond, allowing Celeste to wonder what I’ve said.
Isla’s a fucking queen, and I catch Brennan’s glance, a flicker of pride in his ice-blue eyes. He sees the same thing I do.
Celeste’s gaze sweeps over her with calculated curiosity. “You photograph well. But you’re even better in person.”
That’s Fallon code foryou’ll do.
“Celeste,” I say, my voice cool, controlled. Then I nod at her cutthroat companion. “Everett.”
The Kingmaker leans back in his chair, his grayish eyes as cold as a winter tide. They pin me, then slide to Isla and finally Brennan, peeling us apart with a single look.
Rude bastard doesn’t stand. Doesn’t smile. Just takes everything in, a predator sizing up prey.
Finally he returns his gaze to Isla. “So this is the wife.”
I want to pull her close, shield her from the sharks, but this is the game, and we’re all playing.
“The wife has a name, as you clearly know.” Isla’s voice is clear and measured.
I glance at her, momentarily surprised. She’s quickly learning the rules of this game. Speak softly, carry a razor.Good girl.
Everett raises an eyebrow. “Celeste tells me you read.”
“I hold a doctorate in English literature, if that’s what you’re asking. And I teach.”
The barest flick of defiance curls at the edge of her words. Brennan shifts beside me. Interesting.
Celeste gestures to the table. “Shall we?”
Brennan pulls out Isla’s chair with a gentleness that belies the tension in his jaw, his shoulder brushing hers as he settles beside her. Protective. Always.
Everett’s gaze snags on the movement, his lips thinning, and I know he’s filing it away.
Isla’s posture is elegant and quiet.
The maître d’ asks if we’d like coffee, and I say, “For all of us.”
He signals to a server who’s hovering nearby.
After handing each of us a menu and highlighting the specials—including a Southern take on eggs Benedict with buttermilk biscuits and a pecan-crusted trout—he promises our waitperson will be with us momentarily.
Around us, the dining room hums, and moments later, our coffee is served. Everett’s half-empty cup is whisked away, replaced with a steaming-hot one. Small plates with several ceramic jugs filled with various flavored creamers are placed in front of each of us.
We’re also left with linen-lined baskets of tiny croissants and brioche rolls, still warm from the oven. Fresh whipped butter is also provided.
After being sure we don’t need anything else at the moment, we’re left alone.
Now that we have privacy, Everett leans forward, hawkish gaze on me. “Celeste tells me you’re the best we can do.” His voice is low, gravelly, and I force down the impulse to choke the shit out of him.
“I think she’s fucking lucky Dorian is even considering it.” Brennan’s voice his hard and loyal.
“Gentlemen,” Celeste chides as she refreshes her tea. “Play nice, Everett. Dorian’s our best chance to take the Senate. And you damn well know it.”
“As I said…”
Brennan shoots him a glare that’s part warning, part promise of a painful death.
Clearing his throat, Everett straightens his tie.
