Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Dorian
Fury, icy in its intensity, rocks me.
Somehow I managed to keep my voice low enough that only Isla, Brennan, and the minister could hear me, but the man of the cloth is wearing a lapel microphone, and I clamp my hand over it. “Turn it the hell off.”
Going pale, he does as I say. He’d better. He’s being paid a tidy sum to perform this ceremony. I didn’t trust the Davenports or their youngest daughter.
And I was right not to.
I swing to face Davenport. His face is pale and clammy, and he loosens his tie.
How in the fresh hell did he think he was going to get away with this?
And how did Isla—the woman trembling in front of me—think she could fool me for long?
The actual hell were they thinking? “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” I capture my would-be bride’s shoulders and give her a smile that’s meant to reassure our guests, but not her.
Beside me, Brennan shifts. He’s noted the change in my posture, and he’s ready to react at my signal.
Then, not wanting this situation to get out of control, I take a breath.
Years of questionable deals with shady characters allow me to school my features into neutrality even as rage continues to build beneath my skin.
The weight of the gathered people presses against my back as they wait for the traditional reveal.
My eyes lock onto the trembling woman before me—Isla.
The quiet one. The bookish one. Where Margaux is all curves and practiced grace, Isla is slight, almost fragile, with an untamed wildness in her luminous green eyes that her sister never possessed.
The wedding dress hangs wrong on her frame, a glaring testament to this hasty substitution.
How did I not see this before?
Maybe because I was too damn focused on making sure my bride actually walked down the aisle.
The minister swings his gaze between us. “Shall we proc?—”
I move before he can finish, my hand closing around Isla’s wrist. Her pulse flutters against my fingers, as if she’s a trapped bird.
A ripple of whispers cuts across the crowd—confusion, speculation, the soft rustle of society’s finest sensing scandal.
“With me.” My voice is pitched low, controlled, meant for her ears alone.
Brennan steps in, his broad frame creating a wall between us and the guests. As always, he knows exactly what I need without a word being exchanged.
The minister takes a half step forward as if he’s going to join us. Then he obviously thinks better of it when Brennan clears his throat.
I guide Isla to the side of the altar, into the shadow of the towering flower arrangements. The cloying scent of roses and lilies does nothing to mask the fear rolling off her.
Up close, the differences between the sisters are even more stark—where Margaux carried herself with calculated poise, Isla is vibrating with barely contained panic.
“Please,” she whispers, her voice threading through the space between us. “Please, go through with this.”
I tilt my head, studying her. This isn’t the reaction I expected. “Where is Margaux?”
A swallow tightens her throat, the delicate line of it drawing my attention. “She ran away.”
I close my eyes for the briefest moment, exhaling sharply.
Of course she did. I’m actually not surprised.
Last night at the rehearsal dinner, her reactions had been a touch too perfect, her acquiescence too smooth.
But I hadn’t expected Judge Davenport to have the audacity to try and slip his younger daughter into her place like a counterfeit bill.
The memory of the day this arrangement was struck rises unbidden. Margaux had stood in her father’s study, the perfect society princess, while Isla lingered in the shadows by the bookshelf.
I remember noting how she flinched each time the judge’s voice rose, how her fingers had worried the spine of whatever leather-bound volume she’d been clutching.
Even then, something about her stillness had caught my attention.
She had a different kind of strength than her sister’s showy confidence.
“You really want to do this?”
She’s silent, and I see the truth in her eyes, even before she answers with a broken whisper. “No. ”
At least in that, she was honest, making me grin.
“But I don’t have a choice.”
When I angle my head, she balls her free hand into a fist and digs her unpolished nails into her skin.
“I don’t know exactly what it is between you and my father, why you…” Her voice catches.
“Go on,” my voice is dangerously quiet.
“Bought my sister.”
She’s brave. Braver than I’d originally given her credit for. I fight a smile and return the volley, not trying to deny her words. “And the babies I intend for us to have.”
The tiny amount of color in her face vanishes, leaving her starkly pale. For a moment, I almost— almost —regret my words.
“Babies?” she manages.
“An heir and a spare.” I shrug. “Maybe more.”
“But—”
“Make no mistake, Isla. Once you sign that marriage certificate, I will expect you to be my wife in every possible way.” I reach out, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Beginning tonight, with our honeymoon.”
A pulse flutters in her throat, and she wobbles, as if she might tip over.
Her father starts to stand, and Brennan takes a step in his direction. Quickly the man resumes his seat.
Not as stupid as he appears.
Even though I know Isla is being forced to marry me, and a more decent man would let her walk away, I can’t do that.
Suddenly I burn for her, ache to breathe in her light, feminine scent. I want her as my very own.
“I will honor the arrangement with your father and accept you as my bride.” Deliberately I allow my gaze to trail over her face, mapping every feature that I’d previously dismissed as unremarkable. Now I see potential I hadn’t bothered to look for before. “But I won’t force you.” Maybe.
A shiver rocks her back on her heels, but she doesn’t look away. Interesting.
I ease my fingers down to where her pulse still races beneath my grip, a silent reminder of who holds the power here. “Say it.” My voice is commanding. Starting as I mean to go on.
“I’ll sign the marriage certificate.”
There will be legal things to sort out since Margaux’s name is on the document. But I’ll handle the formalities. “Be very clear that I’m serious about the obey part of the vows.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “I was afraid of that.” Then, looking at me, she goes on, her voice surprisingly calm. “And if you think it will be easy, I’m afraid you don’t know me all that well.”
“Is that a challenge, wife?”
“Take it as you will, Mr. Vale.”
Her intentional formality pisses me off, and I scowl. That expression has made grown men cower. But to her credit, she doesn’t look away.
“Shall we get this farce over with?”
“Marriage, you mean.”
“If you say so.”
More of a spitfire than I might have imagined. And loyal to her family, who doesn’t deserve it. More and more, I’m discovering what a cocksucker Davenport is.
And if he wasn’t, this situation would never have happened.
I turn and lead her back to the altar with unhurried steps. The crowd’s whispers die away, replaced by a tension that’s thick and expectant.
“We’ll be continuing,” I inform the minister, whose eyes dart nervously between us before he nods .
“Turn on the mic,” Brennan instructs the man.
Once he does, he clears his throat. “You may now kiss the bride.”
When I take her mouth, I make sure she—and everyone watching—knows exactly what this is.
Not a fairytale kiss, not a gentle promise.
My fingers dig into her waist, and I feel her startled gasp against my lips.
Let them see. Let them understand. This isn’t about love—it’s about power, possession, and consequences.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m honored to present Mr. and Mrs. Dorian Vale!”
My grip on my new wife firm, I turn us to face our audience, keeping one hand clamped around her waist.
Applause erupts, brittle and uncertain at first, then gaining strength as the social training of Houston’s elite kicks in. Isla’s fingers tremble in mine, her breath uneven, her pulse a frantic rhythm against my skin.
She thinks this deception is the worst of her problems. She has no idea what’s coming.
Next to us, Brennan’s face remains impassive, but I catch the slight lift of his eyebrow.
This wedding changes everything—our carefully laid plans, the delicate balance of power in elite political circles.
Now that I have a wife descended from Texas royalty, I’m unstoppable. Children will seal the deal.
As I feel Isla’s slight frame tense against my side, I think this change isn’t entirely unwelcome. Margaux would have been a perfect political wife, trained since birth for the role. But Isla… Isla might prove to be something far more interesting.
A weapon, if I wield her correctly.
And wield her, I will…
“Smile for the cameras, wife.” Taking her hand, I lead her back down the aisle .
But instead of staying in the foyer as the wedding planner is directing us, I continue down the hallway.
“Where are we going?” Isla demands as she struggles to keep pace with my long strides.
“Someplace we can be alone.” Then I flash her a glance. “Where I can give you a taste of what to expect now that you belong to me…”