Chapter 6 #2
This close, Brennan is all angles and shadows—high cheekbones and a sharp jawline.
A scar bisects his left eyebrow, faint but jagged.
He’s older than me, by at least a decade, and the lines around his mouth suggest he’s seen more than I can imagine.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him, hoping he’ll communicate that to Dorian.
If they’re reassured, maybe they’ll lower their guard .
“No?” His question is light, but I know he’s seen through my white lie.
Brennan is not to be underestimated.
“You’ve got more fire than that, Isla. I saw it when you walked down that aisle with your chin up like you were marching to war.” He spins me gently, the movement smooth and practiced, and I’m forced to follow, my body responding even as my mind scrambles to catch up.
“You don’t know me,” I manage, but it sounds weak, a protest drowned by the truth in his words.
He considers me.
I’m hyperaware of every point of contact between us, the way his thumb brushes the curve of my waist through the gown. His touch is not like Dorian’s, which claims and consumes—this is subtler, an invitation rather than a demand.
“Maybe not,” he concedes, his voice dropping low, intimate. “But I’ve been watching you. You’re not fragile, even when you’re terrified. That’s why he’s worried.” His head tilts toward Dorian, who’s now leaning against the nearby wall, arms crossed, gaze locked on us.
Even from here, I feel his intensity, and I’m forced to look away so I don’t trip over my own feet.
“And you?” I ask when I regain part of my composure. “What do you think I’ll do?”
Brennan’s lips quirk in a half smile that’s gone before I can fully register it. “I think you’re already planning your next move.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words die as Jaxon’s voice cuts through the air.
“Now it’s time for the rest of you to get out on the dance floor.”
The house lights come up just enough to soften the spotlight’s glare. Chairs scrape and conversation resumes as people join us.
Jaxon switches to “Sweet Lovin’,” an upbeat track with a pulsing beat.
Brennan doesn’t miss a step, adjusting our rhythm to match the tempo. In stark contrast with their backgrounds, both men seem adept at societal norms. How can a criminal be an expert on the dance floor?
I’m taken aback a little to see Evelyn near me with Caleb.
Then more and more people join us.
I struggle with what to do. Stay out here with Brennan? Or rejoin Dorian? None of the above, my mind is screaming. And yet Brennan feels slightly less threatening than Dorian. Maybe because I know I don’t have to sleep with him.
Decision made, I search for a safe topic of conversation. “You’re good at this. Dancing, I mean,” I clarify in case he thinks I’m complimenting his earlier, unwanted observations.
“People have…expectations.”
Before I can press further, he spins me, the motion dizzying. Maybe because it’s the first minute of reprieve I’ve had in twenty-four hours, I laugh. The sound is so carefree; it feels as if I’ve stolen it from someone else’s life.
The song winds down, and Brennan slows us to a stop, his hand lingering on my waist a beat longer than necessary.
Has Dorian noticed?
“Time to return you to the king.”
How fitting, since I’ve been considering myself to be a pawn.
He steps back and offers his arm like a gentleman from another era. After the way Dorian has been so dictatorial, this is a welcome reprieve. I accept, and my fingers accidentally brush the taut muscle beneath his sleeve .
God help me.
I have no business having a reaction to anyone other than the man whose ring is settled on my finger.
We make our way through the swaying couples. I’m glad someone is having fun, talking, drinking the expensive alcohol.
At the edge of the dance floor, Dorian is waiting, his posture casual. Deceptively so? With a nod, Brennan releases me to Dorian. It’s a silent handover, and I’m back in Dorian’s orbit, and the magnetic pull of him is inescapable.
“Enjoy yourself?” Not waiting for an answer, Dorian slides an arm around my waist and pulls me close, reclaiming me.
The next hour passes in a blur of music and motion. Jaxon keeps the energy high, spinning tracks that range from sultry R and B to pop anthems, to country line dances. Thanks to him, the atmosphere is a living, breathing thing.
I sip champagne, nod at small talk, and let Dorian guide me through the obligatory mingling. Through it all, Brennan is nearby, joining the conversations, and he’s a presence I now—ridiculously—find reassuring.
A few minutes later, by prior arrangement, double doors at the far end of the ballroom swing open and the cake is wheeled in.
My breath catches at its sheer magnificence. It’s a towering masterpiece, five tiers of midnight black fondant glistening under the chandeliers, each layer adorned with cascading sugar flowers in deep crimson and gold—roses, orchids, and lilies, all so lifelike that I wonder if they’re real.
Delicate filigree swirls climb the sides, shimmering with edible gold dust, and at the top sits a sleek crown—of course there’s a crown—crafted from smooth black fondant, its simple arches studded with tiny, flawless diamonds made from sugar .
It’s not a wedding cake either Margaux or I would have chosen. This is a monument to excess, a billionaire’s fantasy brought to life.
We make our way to the elaborate display, and a server offers us a silver knife.
Because my hand is trembling, I simply place mine on top of his. With surgical precision, he cuts into the masterpiece.
After plating a small slice, he breaks off a sliver and turns to me. “Open up.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No one does that anymore,” I protest, glancing at the onlookers snapping photos. “It’s—it’s ridiculous.”
His eyes darken, and a wicked glint sparks in them. “Humor me, little one.” Before I can argue further, he presses the cake to my lips, and I part them reluctantly. The heavenly chocolate melts on my tongue.
The crowd cheers, but it’s background noise as he leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “I can’t wait to do this with my cock.” His whispered words are a filthy promise. “And you’ll take it all like a good girl. Won’t you?”
My knees threaten to fold, and my mind reels. Warmth floods me in a mix of shock, outrage, and forbidden temptation.
With his lips, he brushes my earlobe, a fleeting tease, and then he pulls back, leaving me trembling, pinned by his stare, the taste of cake and sin lingering on my tongue.
“Perfect,” Marcella calls, rapidly clicking the shutter. “Just perfect.”
This time, I was so wrapped up in Dorian that I never even noticed her.
As the cake is served to our guests, he claims me for another slow dance.
When it’s over, I ask to be excused. Everything has been too much. My feet hurt, and the gown has become itchy. “I’ll just be on the balcony.”
He lifts an eyebrow. Like Brennan had earlier, Dorian searches my features.
“I won’t go anywhere else.” When he doesn’t respond, I go on. “You can trust me.”
Can I, little one? Even though the words are unspoken, I know his expression proves he’s thinking them.
“Ten minutes. No longer.”
I’m somewhat surprised when Brennan doesn’t follow me, like he had when I’d gone to the restroom earlier.
I hardly slow down to snag a much-needed glass of champagne from the end of one of the bars and continue outside. Instantly I’m wrapped in warmth and humidity, with the barest hint of a breeze.
I continue to the far end, away from others who also need a respite from the party.
Leaning forward, I drink in the peace.
It’s as if the festivities are a million miles away, and I can pretend none of this is actually happening.
Moments later, a footstep crunches behind me. I spin as a man backs up against the limestone wall.
“Ma’am,” he greets, tucking his hands behind his back, his stance neutral, respectful.
I sigh.
My husband has clearly sent a guard to ensure I keep my promises.
So much for getting some alone time.
Trying my best to ignore him, I sip my champagne.
Since the property is on the very outskirts of Houston, I’m secluded, with nothing but night sounds and trees for company.
I get lost in my thoughts, and I enjoy the last drop from my flute .
Fortunately a server approaches with a tray.
Smiling my gratitude, I swap my empty glass for a full one.
Before I can lift it, Dorian plucks the drink from my hand. “Not so fast, little one.”
I frown. “But?—”
“We have a honeymoon to get started.”
My pulse kicks. My stomach knots.
I take a slow breath and meet his eyes. “About that.”
Silence pulses between us expectantly.
“There’s a problem.”
“Is there?” He seems totally unconcerned, as if he’s been prepared for me to have a million objections to leaving with him.
The guard quietly walks away, leaving us totally alone.
“Is this normal?” I ask. “Being watched?” I clarify.
“I don’t like to take unnecessary risks,” he replies.
His nonanswer tells me everything.
Billionaires. Mafia. Gamblers. Criminals. Just how dangerous is the world I’ve married into?
More importantly, how will I survive it?
And him.
Despite everything, I am dangerously—no doubt stupidly—drawn to the man I married.
“A problem?” he repeats when I don’t speak again.
Then he confirms my earlier suspicions.
“If you’re hoping that anything you say will get in the way of our honeymoon, you’re wrong.”
“You’re not going to like this.”
There’s patience in his eyes, maybe for the first time. “There’s nothing I can’t solve.”
Such confidence. Or rather, arrogance . As if he alone controls the world.
“Why don’t you try me, little one? ”
I tip my chin back. “I have to go home tonight.”
Instead of simply overriding me and being a jerk about this, he appears interested.
“You have to go home because…?”