Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Isla
The emerald-colored dress fits me like a second skin.
I can’t believe that Dorian expects me to leave the cottage dressed so scandalously. For a moment, I’m tempted to disobey him. But I know that wouldn’t go well for me.
Drawing a steadying breath, I pull back my shoulders and cross the bedroom to open the door.
Both men stand as I enter the living room.
Self-consciously, I tug at the hem of the dress and wrap my arms around my middle.
“Stop.” Dorian’s voice is sharp and laced with pride. “Own it.”
Does he have any idea how impossible that is?
As I stand before them, Dorian sweeps his gaze over me, slowly, deliberately. There’s a spark of hunger in the steel-gray depths of his eyes that holds me riveted despite my urge to flee.
“Damn.” Brennan traces my body with an appreciative intensity that sends awareness racing through me .
“You’re stunning,” Dorian murmurs, his voice a velvet blade.
“He’s right.” Brennan flashes a rare, crooked smile that does funny things to my insides.
Maybe I should be grateful they’re letting me wear undies beneath this scrap of fabric.
“Come to me,” Dorian says, voice low, a command wrapped in silk.
As I move toward him, Calypso lifts her head and blinks at me lazily before letting her eyes drift shut again.
When I’m less than a foot in front of him, Dorian sets his glass down and reaches for something on the side table.
Instantly I recognize the delicate silver collar that he bought at Mademoiselle’s shop. He can’t mean…
“You won’t have to always wear it.”
“Promise?”
“If that makes you feel better.”
His answer is not reassuring.
Gaze on him, unable to believe my own compliance, I slowly nod.
“At other times, I’d have you kneel.” With his fingertip, he tilts my chin back.
Desperately I search his face, hunting for a crack in his steely resolve, but there isn’t any. Instead, there’s just firm, unyielding intent. “But for tonight, I’ll give you a reprieve.”
“How kind.”
At my sarcasm, he lifts an eyebrow. “You may want to consider showing your appreciation. Otherwise…”
He leaves his threat hanging on the jasmine-scented evening air.
“Lift your hair for me, little one. For now, I won’t add a lock.”
My hands tremble as I gather the thick waves and turn to bare my neck to him .
“Where we’re going, we want everyone to know you belong to us—in every way.”
The clasp clicks, and a shiver races down my spine—nervousness, along with a shocking flicker of heat.
“We want everyone to know you belong to us.” His words replay, sinking in even deeper, making my throat tighten.
Dorian takes his time, his cool fingers brushing my shoulders.
“Fuck.” Brennan’s approving reaction twists the knot tighter.
“I want you to see,” Dorian says, nudging me toward the mirror by the hearth.
I walk forward to where he indicates, my steps hesitant, my ridiculously tall heels clicking on the hardwood floors.
In the mirror, their reflections flank mine—Dorian’s dark elegance, Brennan’s scarred intensity.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger. Her skin is pale under the soft light, and her green eyes are wide and expectant.
Her lips part slightly, and the silver mark of their possession gleams against her throat. The gorgeous dress reveals too much, including the vulnerability she can’t hide.
She feels like a stranger, collared and claimed.
And yet…
“Own it,” Dorian urges a second time. “Your courage, your beauty, your elegance.”
Mesmerized, I lift my hand to trace the silver, my pulse hammering beneath it, and their gazes pin me there.
Maybe I’m a stranger to myself, but I’m not uncomfortable.
“The night is young.” Dorian turns me to face him, and he massages my shoulders. “Are you ready?”
Will I ever be ready for what Dorian wants ?
I say goodbye to Calypso and make sure she has kibble and toys available.
Then Dorian takes my elbow and guides me from the cottage. Brennan is close behind us, and I’m finding his quiet presence reassuring, something I couldn’t have imagined even twenty-four hours ago.
Outside, the summer-drenched Louisiana air brushes my skin.
Since the SUV is running and waiting, the interior is chilled, something I appreciate.
As ever, Dorian settles beside me, his knee brushing mine, while Brennan claims the seat across.
“Something to drink?” Dorian offers.
Nearby I see a split of champagne, along with bottled water.
Because my nerves are fraying, I decide not to be sensible.
As we leave the Parthenon, I accept the glass he pours, and the bubbles tickle my nose.
I’ve finished every drop by the time we pull into an unmarked driveway about forty-five minutes later.
In the distance, the Mississippi River glints like a dark ribbon. As we slowly move forward, lush foliage seems to swallow the road, and it’s as if we’re slipping into another world.
I look out the vehicle’s windows, expecting some grand restaurant marquee. Instead, we roll to a stop before a sprawling, shadowed estate, a single, vast building highlighted against the twilight.
The driver opens the door, and Brennan exits first. I slide my palm against his, appreciating his reassuring squeeze.
As I wait for Dorian, I glance around.
“Welcome to Vieille Rivière,” Dorian adds against my ear.
The building’s facade is a decadent sprawl of weathered stone and wrought iron, dripping with ivy. Red silk gleams through tall windows, casting a crimson glow onto the wraparound porch where shadows seem to sway.
Dorian offers his arm, and I take it, trying to steady my shakiness against the fabric of his suitcoat. Brennan is on my right, and I tuck my elbow inside his as we all ascend the wide, weathered steps.
The porch creaks, and the breeze carries the faint tang of river water and sin.
A low, throaty jazz note curls from within, entwining with the scent of magnolia and old-world elegance.
As we approach the entrance, the massive door swings open for us, and inside, a towering figure emerges from the shadows—a broad-shouldered man with a chiseled jaw and eyes like polished obsidian, his presence as commanding as the estate itself.
I falter, my breath catching at the sheer size of him. His tailored vest hugs his frame, hinting at restrained power.
He greets Dorian with a warm, familiar clasp of hands, then turns to Brennan with a nod and a knowing smile. “Messieurs, always a pleasure,” he says, his voice a deep Cajun drawl that curls around me.
Then his knowing eyes settle on me, and I freeze, pinned by the intensity in his gaze.
As if sensing my uncertainty, Dorian reaches for my hand and turns to the man. “Allow me to introduce Isla, our wife. Bastien Cauchon is the owner of Vieille Rivière.”
Bastien offers a polite bow. “Ma belle. I’m happy to welcome you for the first of what I hope are many visits.”
If he’s scandalized by my collar, attire, of the fact I’ve been introduced as their wife, he doesn’t show it.
“As requested, Mr. Vale, your table is ready.” He leads the way, silently inviting us into the restaurant, and what I see leaves me reeling.
Men in tailored jackets and women in barely-there silks drift past, their laughter a sultry ripple that hums through the air.
Nearby a man kneels beside a chair, his head bowed, a thin leather leash trailing from his collar to the hand of a woman in crimson satin.
As I watch, she offers him a bite of meat from her plate.
Heaven save me.
Her eyes meet mine for a fleeting second, and my chest tightens and my pulse slams against the collar, heat flooding my cheeks.
This isn’t a restaurant—it’s a den of velvet vice, a secret playground where power and pleasure are tangled.
A woman wearing a ridiculously tight corset strides by, a whip coiled at her hip like a threat. The decadence seeps into my skin, intoxicating, overwhelming, as Dorian and Brennan brace me between them and draw me deeper into this scandalous abyss.
As we continue through the vast, dark space, we pass more submissives that are kneeling beside chairs, leashes glinting in the chandelier light.
Surely Dorian won’t demand that from me.
Will he?
At a corner table where we can see the entire dining room, Bastien pulls back a chair for me. Before I can take a seat, Dorian shakes his head. “She’ll sit next to me.”
“Of course, sir.”
Extending his hand, Dorian indicates I should enter the booth that’s shaped like a semi-circle. As I do, he lifts the bottom of my dress up to my waist.
Stunned, I look at him and gasp.
He raises one of his dark eyebrows. “Unless you’d like to be naked.”
Oh my God. No. Frantically I shake my head.
“Then thank me for my generosity.”
Are you serious ?
Recognizing the coldness in the depths of his eyes, I tremble. “I’m sure the restaurant wouldn’t permit me to be nude.” I hope.
“Bastien wouldn’t blink an eye.”
“I’m here to ensure you have an enjoyable evening, sir,” the owner agrees.
Of course he is. Dorian would absolutely choose a place that caters exclusively to him and his perverse whims.
Then I think about everything I’ve already seen. There is no doubt my husband would strip me and force me to spend the rest of the evening that way.
“I’d enjoy looking at her breasts all night.” Brennan drops into a chair.
Stunned, my mouth falls open. He’s often my ally, but right now, he’s as serious as Dorian is. I’m outnumbered and overwhelmed. “I’ll behave,” I promise them both.
“And your gratitude?” Dorian prompts.
“Uhm…” I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, little one.”
I grit my teeth. His response was awful, as if he’s showing me the greatest courtesy.
Quickly I scoot to the far side of the booth. But Dorian slides in next to me and reaches out to place an arm around my waist. In a forceful move, he drags me back toward him, even though my skin sticks to the leather a little, making me wince.
“You’ll find your life is easier if you do as I want.”
“Does that include reading your mind?” I fire back.
For a fraction of a second, a hint of a smile teases his lips. “You couldn’t possibly have imagined, for even a moment, that I wanted you to be as far away from me as possible.”
I’d lie, but a flush is creeping across my cheeks.
Bastien clears his throat. “May I pour?” He nods toward the expensive bottle of champagne chilling in a crystal bowl filled with ice and water.
Obviously Dorian arranged for that as well.
“Please.”
Bastien offers a small sample for Dorian’s approval. After he says he’s pleased, Bastien pours the first glass for me.
Once we’re all settled, he bids us a good evening.
Good? I’m not sure that’s the right word. Strange. Bizarre. Freaky. All of those are a better fit.
I take a gulp of the fine vintage, hoping beyond hope to settle my nerves.
“Easy.” Dorian plucks the glass from my fingers. “We have plans for you tonight, and you’ll be sober for them.”
My stomach knots. Of course he has plans. But the big question is where? Here? Or at the cottage?
If he doesn’t lead me on the stage and fuck me there, I’ll be surprised.
As I take in the scene, a violin cries from across the room, and a topless dancer moves to the middle of the room, her hips undulating in an unmistakably sensual way.
I try to look away, and I can’t.
“Intriguing, isn’t it?”
I’ve never experienced anything like this.
Dorian strokes his hand up my thigh. “Spread your legs and keep them that way.”
Even though my instinct is to refuse, I meet his gaze. And I get lost in the enigmatic depths.
“Do as you’re told.”
My lips pursed, I part my thighs, grateful for the long length of the tablecloth.
“Much better.” This time, he trails his fingertips up the inside of my thigh, making me suck in a breath.
As he nears the apex, he strokes back down again, and I exhale my relief .
But moments later, he repeats the action, this time going a little higher. “Are you wet?”
“No.” Desperately I shake my head as I fight off the instinct to escape.
“So you hate this?”
“Yes.” The word, the lie, is a hiss.
“There are consequences for not being honest with me, little one.”
God help me.
“What do you think I’m going to find?”
He can’t know the truth that even I want to hide from. Nothing about Vieille Rivière should turn me on, and I hate that it does.
“Well?”
Before I’m ready, he plunges his fingers beneath the gusset of my panties, making me shiver.
Triumph lights his eyes.
“So you hate being here.”
Horrified, I close my eyes, and he slides a finger between my labia.
He slowly pulls out his finger and traces my own dampness across my lips.
“Dorian…”
“You were warned about being dishonest.”
I shudder.
“Take off your panties.” His words are soft, wrapped in velvet.
There’s no way I can do that. “Here?”
“Here.” He locks his gaze on me. “And now.”
Heat floods my entire body.
“You can take them off beneath the table. Or you can stand next to Brennan, and he can do it for you.”
I look at my cohusband.
“Happy to help.”
“Make your choice, or I’ll do it for you.”