Page 35 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
Brennan closes me inside, far too close to Dorian.
“Short drive,” he tells me.
No matter the duration, it will seem like forever and instantaneous at the same time.
I shoot a text to Calypso’s caretaker, asking her to pop into the apartment one more time, and I promise a bigger tip for her efforts.
Less than three minutes later, the car comes to a stop.
As the driver helps me exit, I take in the structure.
The guesthouse is a smaller version of the mansion where our wedding was held. It’s a beautiful limestone retreat tucked behind a curtain of ancient live oaks that are dripping with Spanish moss.
Amber light glows in the windows. As I pick up my gown and walk up the path, the scent of something floral reaches me—jasmine, maybe, from the vines climbing the trellis outside.
The interior is obscene in its luxury.
A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, its hearth lit with dozens of large candles. Each side has floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that make my literature-nerd heart achewith longing. I could lock myself in here for weeks without ever leaving.
Plush cream rugs soften the dark hardwood floors, and a low, tufted leather sectional sprawls behind a glass coffee table that looks like it cost more than my car. Above, a chandelier of twisted iron and crystal drips from the vaulted ceiling, casting delicate shadows across the room. Beyond the main area, a wall of windows opens to a private deck.
Dorian releases my arm, his fingers brushing my wrist as he steps inside. “You’re welcome to get comfortable.”
“But…”
In that ever-patient gesture of his, he raises a brow.
“I don’t have anything else to wear.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He’s already pulling out his phone and flicking his thumb across the screen.
I want to ask how—how the hell he’s going to magic up clothes in the middle of the night—but the words stick in my throat. I can’t imagine anyone telling this man no to anything.
Instead, I turn and head down the hall, the gown’s satin hem dragging behind me.
The bedroom is as fabulous as the rest of the guesthouse. There’s a king-size bed with a pristine white duvet, sleek nightstands, and stunning, large mirrors that seem to double the space in the room.
Gratefully I kick off the shoes and blow out a breath. My toes are tender, and I’m convinced that even my blisters have blisters.
Barefoot, all but tripping over the dress, I walk to the closet that’s almost as big as my current bedroom. As he promised, there’s a robe there. Two, actually. His and hers. Thick and fluffy and inviting. I reach for one, and I drop my hand, growing cold as I recognize the logo on the lapel.
The monogram is of Athena’s owl surrounded by laurelleaves and represents the Zetas—a secret society that my father belongs to.
Over the years, I’ve read everything I possibly can about the organization that’s comprised of the world’s elite—scientists, playwrights, screenwriters, poets laureate, business leaders, prime ministers, generals, billionaires, professors, the brightest legal minds on the planet.
But most of what’s known is pure conjecture.
If I hadn’t seen my father wearing his ring every day, I might not have believed the Zetas actually exist.
If rumor can be believed, the members are called Titans, and they own a magnificent mansion in Louisiana where a yearly meeting is held over the course of two weeks.
An intrepid reporter supposedly managed to scale a fence during the annual bonfire, and most of what is on the internet about the event is from that night. But there’s no proof that the man didn’t make all that up, either, just for the sake of selling his story.
“Isla?” Dorian calls. “Is there a problem.”
Closing my eyes, I reach for the robe and toss it on the bed.
Reluctantly I decide to change.
