Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dorian
“Have you thought about the consequences for even one fucking second?”
Brennan’s question cuts through the late-night air. Despite the way I pull my shoulders back, his words land hard.
I shrug, even though he’s leveled a legitimate accusation.
Sometimes I act without looking at all the angles of a situation. Yet my decisiveness—moving fast—is the trait that got us out of the damn gutter to begin with.
“You have other people to think about now beside yourself. And I’m not just talking about me as your partner.”
And enforcer.
He pauses. “We’ve got Isla to consider.”
As if I can forget.
I’m standing next to the fireplace while our bride sleeps in the bed—alone—curled under the duvet where we left her, soft and spent.
Her scent clings to me—sweet, wild, fucking addictive. And the feminine taste of her lingers on my tongue.
A memory returns, uninvited, unwanted…that of her spreading her legs for the first time in hesitant invitation. My cock twitches.
Brennan paces the hardwood floor, barefoot, pants slung low, his scars stark in the dim lighting. His blue eyes burn, locked on me, and I feel the old weight of his trust fraying—years of blood and loyalty unraveling over one damn call.
Dragging a hand into his hair, he stalks to the sideboard and splashes whiskey into two glasses.
That he’s poured one for me says something.
I accept the drink from him and angle it in his direction in silent thanks.
“I’m dead serious. Do you know what the fuck you’re actually doing?”
Keeping my expression neutral, I say, “You’re gonna need to narrow that down.” Is this about Isla? Or is this deeper? Lena, maybe?
Or Moretti?
In the silence, Brennan goes on. “You froze once before—don’t do it again.”
“Fuck you.” The blame. The recrimination. He is talking about the only woman I’ve ever loved, the one I wanted to spend my life with. Which all circled back to the Castillo mess, and that night when I couldn’t move fast enough to save her. “Even for you, that’s cold.”
I down half of my whiskey. It’s smooth, and it burns dangerously.
If I don’t slow my roll, I’ll seek oblivion in the bottom of the bottle, be more fucked up than I already am. Even though I tried, life taught me I can’t drown memories of Lena—or thoughts of Isla—in a glass.
Brennan clenches his fist. “You’re repeating history. Keeping me out . Don’t play dumb, asshole. Marco’s been nabbed, and you didn’t say shit.” His tone’s lethal, the kind that broke jaws back when we were scrapping in Houston dives.
At the reception, Moretti took me aside.
While Isla walked down the aisle, Marco Gallo—one of Moretti’s men—was arrested.
Dante’s voice still rings in my head. “Get him out.”
Suddenly his guy getting snatched was my problem. Goddamn Morettis should have known there was heat on them. Feds are always interested in organized crime.
Unfortunately for me, Marco was working for one of my companies when the feds moved in.
Before I could respond, Dante had continued. “Find out who can be bought.”
Always a solid plan.
Because my wedding was the event of the season, plenty of my associates were in attendance, including high-ranking officials, one in the justice department.
Conversations were had; calls were placed. And I backed Judge Davenport against a wall. I reminded him of the pictures I had and the debt he owed.
Within an hour, I had the price.
Five hundred large.
I’d whistled. That was a hell of a lot of money to immediately come up with in unmarked bills.
When convenient and seemed natural, I’d informed Moretti.
“Pay it.”
As if this party and my potential upcoming campaign weren’t big enough expenses?
Of course there’d be no Senate seat if my name was tied to this incident.
Jesus fucking hell .
“I can’t be tied to this,” Moretti had insisted.
As if I could?
Lucian Hawthorne handled the wire transfer, bouncing the money around the world a dozen times before bringing it in and landing it in an offshore account.
“Still waiting for an answer, Vale.”
Brennan’s sharp tone cuts through my ruminations. “If Marco’s not already out, I’d be surprised.”
“You didn’t think to mention any of this?”
Of course not. There was no need.
I sip the whiskey, the burn steadying me. Castillo’s old tricks still haunt us—loan scams were his game before he fucked us on that land deal. “It’s handled.”
“Fuck you.” Brennan slams down his glass on the mantel. “ Handled? You wired five hundred grand without a word. It’s our cash, asshole . Half mine. And what the hell are you doing, playing ball with Moretti?”
“No harm. No foul.”
“No harm. No foul?” His low, threatening tone is the kind that used to send punks running back when we were clawing our way up.
He stalks closer, his eyes blazing. “You’re betting our cash, our livelihoods, even the risk of jail, and you don’t even blink. I know you’re a selfish sonofabitch. But come on. Isla’s an innocent, man.”
An innocent.
I freeze, the drink halfway to my lips.
Masking the jolt to my gut, I deliberately set the glass down.
“She deserves a husband who thinks things through and considers all the angles. You’re responsible for her now.”
I shove aside the realization he’s right. Instead, I say, “Isla doesn’t need to know about any of this.” The mob, what a bastard her father truly is, my past, the woman I can’t forget…
“Doesn’t need to—” Brennan clenches and unclenches his fists. “The fuck are you talking about, Vale? She’s not some sidepiece. She’s ours forever.” His voice cracks, softer now, and I see it—guilt flickering in his eyes, the same shadow from when Lena bled out in that Houston alley.
And curse it all. Tendrils of remorse nip at me. I’m unfamiliar with the feeling, and I fucking don’t like it.
“You exchanged vows.”
This time.
“Isla willingly gave herself to us.” Brennan glances over his shoulder, back toward the bedroom. “Yeah. She’s tough all right. Priceless.”
I hadn’t expected that from a shy, bookish intellectual.
He drags a hand over his face, and his scars pull tight.
“But she’s an innocent, Dorian—doesn’t deserve this shit.
Davenport’s dirty, sure—escorts, blackmail, whatever he’s hiding—but she’s clean.
And so goddamn trusting. And you’re out here playing king with her old man’s debt and cleaning up after Moretti’s goons.
She’s not Margaux—she didn’t sign up for this. ”
I lean against the mantel. Even though I maintain a cool facade, my chest tightens.
Her innocent green eyes flash in my head, and I see them as they’d been when I lifted her veil—wide and wild. “She’s tougher than you think,” I say, voice steady. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have had any part in her father’s charade.
“Are you fucking paying attention?”
Earlier, when I realized she wasn’t my intended wife, I dragged her aside. I thought she’d run. But she met my gaze. Panicked but resolved. “She asked me to go through with it.” Begged me .
“Fuck you. Tell yourself whatever you want, but you know damn well she didn’t have a choice.”
I pick up the whiskey and sip it, letting it burn—discipline be damned.
“She’s not some pawn to shield your Senate run—she’s ours, damn it.” His voice drops, rough in a way that I haven’t heard since that last night with Lena. “There’s been enough loss.”
“As if I fucking don’t know that? Goddamn you.”
“Clean up your act. Fast. Don’t drag her into this.”
A creak cuts through the night air.
I quickly turn, my gut lurching.
Isla is there, her robe knotted tight around her slim frame, dark hair spilling wild, her eyes wide and uncertain.
She’s watching, silently. Faint light catches the flush on her cheeks.
How long has she been there? How much of this raw, painful argument has she overheard?
“Drag me into what?”
Shit. She’s heard more than I ever would have wanted.
Brennan stiffens—I feel his guilt spike, heavy as mine.
I step forward, whiskey still in hand, voice cold, steady. “Nothing, little one—just business. Go back to bed.” No softness—can’t give it, not now, not with her staring at me as if she wants to expose my deepest and darkest secrets.
She doesn’t move.
Stubborn, stupidly fearless woman.
I place my drink on the mantel too sharply. Then I close the gap and capture her shoulders, my grasp firm and demanding.
Her robe is warm, and her body is soft. But beneath her bravado, I feel her faint trembling.
She brings up her chin to meet my gaze without flinching .
“You’re right about a lot.” She swallows deeply as if seeking courage. “I am stronger than I appear.”
Then she looks at Brennan, and her expression softens.
Damn it. The way she studies him stabs me. I want that too.
“And you’re absolutely right on another point,” she tells him. “I didn’t want this. Any of it.”
Her words are another gut punch.
With everyone else in my life, I’ve been stone, numb, ruthless. But this wisp of a woman is making me crack.
She blinks and refocuses on me. “My father’s no saint—I’ve always known that.” She shivers again, and her robe slips a little to bare a sliver of collarbone. “Despite what Brennan says, after tonight, I’m not an innocent anymore.” Her voice is suddenly hard as steel. “I know you bought me?—”
“Bought?” I demand.
“You gave my father money, didn’t you?”
I don’t respond to that. Can’t.
“Bought,” she reiterates. “We all know it. I’ll do what I have to. Show up. Be a candidate’s wife. Do my duty. Nothing more.”
Her rejection is a sucker punch, pissing me off. “Sex?” I growl, daring her, voice rougher than I mean.
Eyes blazing—defiant, gorgeous, she unblinkingly meets my gaze. “If I have to.”
Fuuuck.
Have to?
I felt the way she responded. Heard her whimpers and pleas. She came undone for us. “Damn right you do. I have needs.”
“Vale…” Brennan warns.
But I’m past being reasonable.
I tighten my grip. Isla is throwing me off, tilting my world. I pride myself on my iron will, of being unshakeable .
She doesn’t even blink.
A sudden, savage urge overcomes me.
I want to see her belly swollen with my kid—our child. The ache is wild, and I can’t tame it.
What in the fuck is wrong with me? “In that case, wife, time to do your damn duty.”