Chapter 17 #2
Moving quickly, she pulls out silks and satins in a dizzying array of colors—crimson, midnight blue, sheer black.
She holds up a negligee, so thin it’s practically transparent, and I want to sink through the floor.
“This would suit our lovely Isla,” she says to Dorian, as if I’m not standing right here. “And perhaps this?”
A pair of panties, barely more than a whisper of lace, dangles from her fingers.
My stomach twists as she loads the items into Brennan’s arms, but it’s Dorian’s voice that cuts through next, low and deliberate.
“Perfect.” He sweeps his gaze over me before addressing Mademoiselle.
“We will need everything. Bras, panties, nightgowns—things she can relax in. And pieces that she’ll be modeling during private times. ”
I can’t believe this conversation is happening, and my skin prickles from embarrassment. “Not happening.” My voice is louder than I intended, and I’m not sorry.
He seems unconcerned. “I’m a very visual man, Isla. Indulge me.”
Brennan pulls out a deep plum satin chemise, its hem edged with delicate lace. “This too.” He places the garment onto the pile. Then he adds a pair of black stockings that are sheer with a faint shimmer.
When I’m sure we’ve bought out her entire stock, she says, “And something that’s appropriate for tonight…” Mademoiselle retrieves a dress that is emerald green. The neckline plunges to the navel, and the back dips so low it barely qualifies as clothing.
And there’s a comma in the price, making me gasp.
It’s stunning, yes, but it’s not me. I’ve never worn anything so revealing, so brazen. My hands tremble as I imagine stepping into it, the fabric clinging to my slight curves, leaving nothing to the imagination.
“Dorian, I can’t,” I whisper, my voice cracking. My heart’s pounding, a wild mix of nerves and temptation. He’s pushing me, stripping away every boundary I’ve clung to, and I hate how part of me wants to let him.
“You can,” he says, stepping closer, his breath warm against my temple. “And you will. For us.”
The word obey —and how completely he’d meant it—flashes through my mind.
Mademoiselle watches us, her smile soft but piercing, like she sees straight through my panic. “It’s a bold choice,” she acknowledges, handing the dress to Brennan, who drapes it over his arm. “But you’ve strength in you, ma chère. This suits you. More than you are willing to acknowledge.”
She’s wrong. I don’t feel strong. I feel raw, exposed, teetering on the edge of chaos that I can’t control.
Mademoiselle’s gaze softens, and she steps closer, her voice dropping. “You must get out of your own way, ma chère. The mind builds walls, but the heart knows the truth. Listen to it. Let him in— let them in —and see what blooms. You won’t be destroyed. You’ll be remade, if you allow it.”
“No…” I shake my head. Dorian would shatter me into pieces and call it art.
He places his hand on my shoulder, and I flinch, but I don’t pull away. “And now, a collar.”
He is mad. There’s no way I’ll ever wear something like that.
She moves—glides—to a case lined with pink satin. Inside, collars gleam—some bold and heavy, others fine and intricate.
I’m riveted, fascinated, and horrified as she unlocks it with a tiny key that was attached to one of her bracelets.
Even though I want to run away, my gaze catches on one that is made from delicate silver. It’s double-stranded with a delicate weave of vines and tiny flowers linking two bands.
Without me directing her, Mademoiselle picks up the piece.
It’s beautiful, almost jewelry-like, but the lock at the back betrays its purpose. My throat tightens. I can’t wear that . I won’t.
I shoot Dorian a cold glare, but he’s already reaching past me to accept the piece from the proprietress.
He holds it up to the light, inspecting it with a slow, appreciative nod. “Perfect for you. Subtle, but unmistakable.”
“I’m not—” I start, but the dark warning in his eyes cuts me off.
“Not yet,” he corrects, his voice soft, mixed in threat and promise. “But you will. This is meant to be yours.”
The two men exchange glances, and Brennan nods.
“We’ll take it.” He hands it to Mademoiselle, who tucks it into a velvet-lined lacquered box .
When she hands it back, Dorian slips it into a pocket in his suitcoat.
“Will that be all for now?” Mademoiselle asks.
As she moves to package everything in elegant black bags embossed with the store’s name in raised gold lettering, I stand there, rooted, my mind spinning.
This can’t be my life—modeling lingerie, wearing dresses that scream seduction, having a collar locked around my neck.
But with Dorian’s hot gaze on me, and Mademoiselle’s quiet confidence filling the room, I wonder how long I can keep saying no before I don’t recognize myself.
Even more terrifying, what happens if I continue to go along with their demands?
“Find out,” Mademoiselle encourages me.
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve spent your life reading about others’ adventures. And now you want to know what happens in yours.” She pauses for a long, dramatic amount of time that makes me hold my breath. “Don’t you?”