Chapter 7 #2
“I will.” Besides, I’m still curious to know what she was going to tell me earlier.
“Isla?” Dorian prompts.
Blinking away my sudden tears, I allow myself to be moved toward his groups of friends.
My parents are nowhere in sight.
I guess it’s not a surprise that they left without even pretending to say goodbye. Then again, appearances usually matter more to them than anything else.
“Let’s go,” Dorian says a full twenty minutes later .
Frantically I look around, hoping there’s someone we’ve missed.
“No one is coming to save you.” Once again, he seems to have read my mind.
I’m swept toward the exit, trapped between Dorian and Brennan. The sounds of music, laughter, and talking fade as we cross the foyer’s marble floor.
All too soon, the magnificent oak doors shut behind us, sealing off my hope of retreat.
A limo is waiting at the bottom of the steps.
The driver opens the door, and Dorian slides in, and Brennan offers his support as I lift my hem and make the transition in my too-large shoes.
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 ache with 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 laurel leaves 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.
But the gown is a problem.
The bodice is a maze of pins, and the zipper is buried under layers of fabric that I can’t reach.
“Damn it,” I mutter, tugging uselessly at the shoulder.
“Need help?” Dorian’s voice cuts through the quiet, and I spin to find him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, studying me.
My cheeks burn. “I—no, I can?—”
“Stop.” He pushes off the frame and crosses to me in three strides, his presence filling the room. “Turn around.”
His statement isn’t a request.
Hating myself for it, I obey him. Dorian’s strong fingers brush my nape as he finds the zipper.
His touch is warm, deliberate, and I tense as the gown loosens.
Cool air dances across my skin, and the fabric swooshes down to a pool at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my lace panties and matching bra.
“That’s better.”
Hurriedly, keeping my back to him, I snatch up the robe and yank it on, knotting the belt as tightly as I can before facing him. “Thanks,” I manage, voice brittle.
He steps back, eyeing me as if he’s a predator sizing up prey. “I’ll give you five minutes.” In a smooth move, he angles his wrist to check his very fancy Bonds watch. “Meet me in the living room.”
I nod, retreating to the stunning ensuite bathroom.
My hair is an absolute disaster, wisps are everywhere, framing my face, and a few curls hang over one of my shoulders. Wishing I had a brush with me, wondering if there’s anything I can do to repair the damage, I lean forward.
The robe’s lapels slip a little, and I frantically pull them back together.
I take my time, stalling as long as possible.
“Isla! You’re trying my patience.”
My heart lurches to a stop before racing on.
I’ve stalled as long as possible.
This is it, the moment I’ve dreaded since he lifted that veil and saw me instead of Margaux.
Trembling, I make my way back to Dorian, clutching the robe around me as if it’s a suit of armor.
When I reach the living room, I freeze.
Brennan is standing near the fireplace, his tuxedo jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Dorian is sitting casually in an armchair, glass of whiskey in hand, one ankle propped on the opposite knee.
He’s still in his tux, but the ends of his bowtie hang loose around his neck, and the top button of his shirt is undone, revealing a sliver of tanned skin. The flickering candlelight catches the stubble shadowing his jaw, and despite my nerves, he’s breathtaking—raw, undone, a devil in black tie.
“What—?” I choke out, glancing between them as Dorian rises from the armchair, setting his whiskey glass on the table with a soft clink.
“Brennan will be staying with us.” Dorian’s voice is casual as if he’s announcing the weather. “Honeymoon’s for three.”
My stomach drops. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Dorian’s gaze hardens, pinning me in place. “Take off the robe, Isla.”
Instead, I grip the lapels tighter as terror spikes through me. He can’t mean this—any of it.
“You heard me.” His voice is silk over steel, unyielding. “Take. It. Off.”
Brennan shifts, moving closer, and I’m trapped between them—Dorian’s command and Brennan’s quiet, unreadable presence. The air thickens, electric and suffocating, and there’s no running or hiding from this.
From them.