Page 86 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
We were shown to the Jasmine Cottage, a beautiful, private lodging on the estate. Dorian thought of everything, and Calypso has access to a screened porch. I have no idea how he managed it, but she also has a climbing post with a perch up top, a litter box hidden inside a table, and crystal bowls. A bottle of very fancy imported still water was left for her.
In the bedroom, I discover a closet and drawers filled with clothes, from T-shirts and shorts, from summer dresses to evening wear, and tennis shoes to stilettos. In the bathroom was a gift basket filled with all kinds of high-end lotions and bath oils, along with shampoo and conditioner.
There’s also a set of luggage, apparently for me, that matches Dorian’s.
My mother has the same, exclusive brand. As if a label matters.
By the time I rejoined the men, a magnificent charcuterie board had been delivered. It was sitting next to a chilling bottle of luxury champagne.
And then Dorian had looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Ready to start your honeymoon, darling?”
I’d tensed, expecting a prelude to his lingerie parade. Instead, he informed me that he booked a spa day for me.
When I arrived, I was handed a menu of services—not a single price listed. I started with a mani-pedi and moved on to a facial and massage. Before heading back, I have a hair appointment. I want to get all these remaining pins out and maybe pull the length into a more familiar ponytail.
I’m not sure where Dorian or Brennan are or what they’re doing, and I’m happy with that. For the first time since I was summoned to my parents’ house, I can unwind. No one is watching me, and I have no expectations to meet.
But the silence lets my mind spiral in on itself.
This isn’t my life—lounging in decadence, tethered to two men who’ve upended everything. I enjoy working, sharing my love of literature.
At some point, I need to inform both of them that I won’t go along with their whims, no matter how hard they try to make me.
“Your Frozé, ma’am.”
Brennan’s voice slices through my reverie, low and gravel rough, and I instantly blink my eyes open.
My breath catches, hard.
He’s there, six-foot-something of quiet menace, holding a glass of pale pink slush, with strawberries glistening in the chilled glass. His dark hair’s wind tousled, and his sleeves are rolled up, baring the scarred forearms that snag my gaze every time. Stubble has carved his jaw into appealing, rugged angles. His intense, icy-blue eyes meet mine. And his lips are curled upward in a disarming smile, making my pulse rate soar.
“What are you doing here?” I sit up too fast, and my robe parts, flashing bare skin. Even though it’s too late, I grab hold of my lapels as heat chases up my face. “Is Calypso all right?”
“She’s fine.” He sets the Frozé on the table beside me, iceglinting like cut glass. “Ruling the cottage last I saw—perched like a queen.”
I exhale, and my tension eases some, but he’s stayed where he was, too close, and the scent of leather and spice cuts through the spa’s floral haze, stirring my senses. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m checking on you.” He crouches, bringing his face level with mine, his voice dipping low, intimate. “This has been a lot. And I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
My throat tightens, a soft ache blooming behind my ribs. It’s him—the way he sees me, not just a piece in their game but something real. “Does Dorian know you’re here?”
“He suggested it.”
I blink. “Seriously? Or are you trying to make him look good?”
“Swear, on my honor.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“Hey, I have some honor.”
“Of course you do.” I reach for the Frozé, and our fingers brush. “What is in this?” The drink looks as inviting as it does refreshing. But I’m scared it might be lethal.
“A dry rosé and strawberries.”
I wait for him to go on.
“And peach schnapps.”
