Page 163 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
When the door closes again, much quieter this time, I exhale with relief and equal measures of regret.
The world inside me stills.
Then my pulse drops into overdrive. This may be my only chance.
I tighten the robe’s belt and crack the door open a little, double checking that I truly am alone.
Calypso winds her way around my legs and dashes down the hallway.
Resolved, I head toward their office…a line I’m not supposed to cross.
I’m sure it’s just my imagination, but the scent of Dorian’s temper seems to hang in the air.
As if I’m a criminal in my own home, I draw a deepbreath before reaching for the knob. It turns, and I blink in surprise that it’s not locked.
Then again, why would it be? The penthouse is as secure as Fort Knox. And until now, I’ve been a good girl who does what she’s told.
Inside, the scents of leather and dominance wrap around me, familiar and deeply craved.
Resolutely I square my shoulders.
I’ve had my head in the clouds because of the physical and emotional pull they hold over me.
But last night laid bare the truth, and I can’t pretend anymore.
Knowing how pissed he would be, I drop into the chair behind Dorian’s massive desk. The furniture itself seems to be a monument to control. Sleek, precise, stupidly expensive.
My hands are shaking as I open the center drawer.
Inside is a photo.
It’s Dorian and a woman. And I stop breathing.
They’re at a beach somewhere, with sparkling blue water, sitting on white sand beneath an umbrella. Her blond hair gleams in the sunlight, and her smile is wide and easy. His arm is around her shoulders, and his face—God—his face is unguarded.
He doesn’t wear the practiced, calculating smile that’s so familiar.
This Dorian is a man I don’t know.
There’s a heart at the bottom of the photo, along with the words,Love, Lena.
A sob lodges at the base of my throat.
The photo is another undeniable truth. They were in love.
Frustratedly I swipe away a tear that is winding down my cheek.
I drop the photo back in its place and slam the drawer.
For a few moments, reeling from shock, I sit there.
Then my phone rings, shattering the silence and sending dread up my spine. At this time of the morning, it has to be either Dorian or Brennan. And I can’t risk talking to either of them.
Realizing that my time might be limited to make an escape, I push back from the desk.
My legs feel unsteady as I stand, then force myself to move across the room.
I pull the door closed behind me, part of me wishing I’d never opened it to begin with.
