Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dorian
Fuck me three ways from Sunday.
Isla emerges from our bedroom looking more stunning than ever.
Her hair is twisted up, and loose curls escape in a way that looks effortless but isn’t.
I sweep my gaze over her, taking in her stunning eyes, coral-painted, kissable lips, and the feminine column of her throat.
The tasteful V neckline of her blue dress draws my attention.
Lazily, I let my gaze drift lower—taking in the gentle swell of the breasts I can’t get enough of, noting the gentle nip at her waist, the subtle flare of her hips, the length of her toned legs, and the peekaboo of her polished toenails.
Then I drag my gaze back up again, admiring the way the silk dress flows over her body.
She’s mine. For life.
My breath constricts. Then I force myself to exhale and get a grip. There’s no fucking reason I should have this kind of a hard-on for the woman I never even wanted, the wife I never knew I was getting.
But then I catch a whiff of her light, floral, seductive scent, and my cock presses insistently against the front of my tailored slacks.
I’ve prided myself on never letting a woman lead me around by my dick. And goddamn it, she won’t be the first.
She flicks a glance toward the silver carafe on the room service cart.
“Is there more coffee?”
Instantly Brennan crosses the room to pour her a cup.
I remain where I am, despite my natural inclination to take care of every imaginable need she might ever have.
“We’re meeting Celeste Fallon?” she asks, repeating what I told her earlier this morning and smiling her thanks as she accepts the cup Brennan offers.
I nod.
“The owner of Fallon and Associates?”
Impressed, I tilt my head. When had she done her research?
“Her website is rather vague, but I gather from articles that her firm is much more than a PR company.”
Again, I’m impressed.
“She’s a Titan?” Isla guesses.
Did she overhear something? Or had she reached that conclusion on her own?
If Celeste wore her Zeta Society ring today, Isla would know for sure anyway. No sense hiding the fact. “She is.”
“Are we meeting anyone else?”
“Everett Parker. He’s a political strategist.”
She carries her coffee into the living room, sets it down, and perches on the edge of a chair. Then, with a whisper of silk, she crosses her legs. The hem of her dress parts just slightly, offering a glimpse of her creamy thigh.
Brennan and I exchange glances.
As we watch, she taps her keyboard, reads for a bit, then looks up at me. “He’s known as the Kingmaker.”
“Perhaps a bit overstated.”
She reads further, then sets her phone down. “I see people referring to him as the Oracle. People go to him for answers they can’t get from anyone else. Able to predict the future. See things others can’t.”
“Again, overstated. A clickbait headline.” I shrug.
“No one’s infallible,” Brennan agrees. “Not even Parker.”
I return my gaze to my wife. “Can you be ready to go in five minutes?”
“I’m ready now.” After a drink of her coffee, she stands and grabs her phone. “I just have to feed Calypso.”
“Already handled,” Brennan replies.
“You…?” Her eyes light up. “Thank you.” The smile she gives him is bright, genuine—one of those quiet, radiant things that sneaks up on you and stays lodged in your chest. And I hate how much I notice. Hate how much it stings.
She should look at me that way. But I’ve given her very little reason to.
As she deposits her phone in her purse, Brennan’s phone chimes. After checking it, he tucks it back inside his suit coat. “Transportation is here.”
The meeting starts at the top of the hour, and Brennan has timed it so that we will be fifteen or twenty minutes early, like always.
“Arrive first. See who shows up late. Who lingers. Who scans the room like they’ve got something to hide.
People always reveal more than they think—if you’re watching. ”
He doesn’t just believe in arriving early—he believes in choosing the terrain.
“Don’t just take a seat. Take the right seat.
” That’s another of Brennan’s favorite mantras.
“Face the entrance. Watch the door. Never let someone else control the line of sight or the conversation flow. Table dynamics tell you who’s posturing, who’s pretending, and who’s planning something. ”
Brennan ushers us out and locks the door behind us. Then he jogs down the stairs to the waiting, oversize golf cart.
Since she’s wearing ridiculously high and sexy sandals, I offer my arm, which I would have done even if she’d been in athletic shoes. Any excuse to have her touch me.
Without hesitation, she accepts, curling her fingers around my wrist.
Her legs look so sexy, calves on display, that I decide I may burn every pair of her shoes that aren’t this tall.
I help her into the cart as Brennan climbs into the front passenger seat next to the driver.
Classic Brennan. Positioned for maximum visibility, minimal vulnerability.
He’s not here to socialize—he’s here to ensure our safety, despite the fact we’re in one of the most secluded, security-rich places on the planet.
The vehicle takes off silently and with surprising speed, forcing Isla to put her hand on my thigh to steady herself. Quickly she pulls back.
One day, perhaps she’ll touch me simply because she wants to.
In the distance, the Grand House rises like a vision of Southern grandeur, its ten Grecian pillars draped in climbing jasmine that perfumes the warm summer morning.
Our driver pulls to a stop beneath the porte cochère.
Before I have a chance to exit, Brennan is there to help Isla alight.
Wisely he steps away when I join them, and I take her hand.
Once we’re inside, a massive crystal chandelier casts prisms across the walls, where oil paintings of old Louisiana oaks whisper of timeless wealth.
We pass the staircase and approach the dining room.
As we grow closer, I see Titans meeting with others over cups of chicory coffee, the air all but vibrating with their power as agreements are reached, sealed with handshakes and nods.
A ma?tre d’ greets us by name and checks Isla’s identification before leading us toward the far corner.
As we walk, I rest my fingers lightly on the base of Isla’s spine. Brennan flanks her other side, his tailored navy suit sharp, eyes scanning the room like he’s mapping every angle, every escape.
When our table comes into view, I set my jaw, and Brennan shoots me an annoyed glance.
Despite my attempt to control the space, Celeste and Everett are already here, seated. Judging by the fact there’s a porcelain pot near her teacup and a half-empty coffee cooling near Everett’s hand, they’ve been here for some time.
A thick manila folder sits heavy between them like a declaration of war, its edges frayed, as if it’s been opened and slammed shut dozens of times.
Only one thing is inside. Leverage.
The pair have been scheming. Talking about my life. Brennan’s.
And maybe Isla’s.
My temper flares, even though it shouldn’t.
After all, isn’t this what I’m paying her a small fortune for?
Celeste rises with the kind of grace that’s been bred, honed, and weaponized across centuries. “Dorian.” Her voice slices through the quiet with the precision of a honed blade. Then she spares a nod for Brennan. Only then does she greet my bride. “And you must be Isla. ”
Her eyes scrape over my wife, as if measuring, assessing.
Isla stiffens, but she lifts her chin, meeting Celeste’s gaze with a quiet fire that makes my chest ache. “A pleasure to meet you.” Then she adds, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Have you?”
She smiles but doesn’t respond, allowing Celeste to wonder what I’ve said.
Isla’s a fucking queen, and I catch Brennan’s glance, a flicker of pride in his ice-blue eyes. He sees the same thing I do.
Celeste’s gaze sweeps over her with calculated curiosity. “You photograph well. But you’re even better in person.”
That’s Fallon code for you’ll do .
“Celeste,” I say, my voice cool, controlled. Then I nod at her cutthroat companion. “Everett.”
The Kingmaker leans back in his chair, his grayish eyes as cold as a winter tide. They pin me, then slide to Isla and finally Brennan, peeling us apart with a single look.
Rude bastard doesn’t stand. Doesn’t smile. Just takes everything in, a predator sizing up prey.
Finally he returns his gaze to Isla. “So this is the wife.”
I want to pull her close, shield her from the sharks, but this is the game, and we’re all playing.
“The wife has a name, as you clearly know.” Isla’s voice is clear and measured.
I glance at her, momentarily surprised. She’s quickly learning the rules of this game. Speak softly, carry a razor. Good girl.
Everett raises an eyebrow. “Celeste tells me you read.”
“I hold a doctorate in English literature, if that’s what you’re asking. And I teach.”
The barest flick of defiance curls at the edge of her words. Brennan shifts beside me. Interesting.
Celeste gestures to the table. “Shall we? ”
Brennan pulls out Isla’s chair with a gentleness that belies the tension in his jaw, his shoulder brushing hers as he settles beside her. Protective. Always.
Everett’s gaze snags on the movement, his lips thinning, and I know he’s filing it away.
Isla’s posture is elegant and quiet.
The ma?tre d’ asks if we’d like coffee, and I say, “For all of us.”
He signals to a server who’s hovering nearby.
After handing each of us a menu and highlighting the specials—including a Southern take on eggs Benedict with buttermilk biscuits and a pecan-crusted trout—he promises our waitperson will be with us momentarily.
Around us, the dining room hums, and moments later, our coffee is served. Everett’s half-empty cup is whisked away, replaced with a steaming-hot one. Small plates with several ceramic jugs filled with various flavored creamers are placed in front of each of us.
We’re also left with linen-lined baskets of tiny croissants and brioche rolls, still warm from the oven. Fresh whipped butter is also provided.
After being sure we don’t need anything else at the moment, we’re left alone.
Now that we have privacy, Everett leans forward, hawkish gaze on me. “Celeste tells me you’re the best we can do.” His voice is low, gravelly, and I force down the impulse to choke the shit out of him.
“I think she’s fucking lucky Dorian is even considering it.” Brennan’s voice his hard and loyal.
“Gentlemen,” Celeste chides as she refreshes her tea. “Play nice, Everett. Dorian’s our best chance to take the Senate. And you damn well know it.”
“As I said… ”
Brennan shoots him a glare that’s part warning, part promise of a painful death.
Clearing his throat, Everett straightens his tie.
Celeste taps the top of the manila folder, and her unmistakable Titans ring catches the light. Of course Isla notices.
Then she slides the dossier across the white tablecloth to me. “In case you’re interested.”
Who wouldn’t be?
What have they uncovered?
Before I can read the contents, the server returns to take our orders.
As soon as I can, I move my coffee aside and draw the dossier closer, flipping it open to reveal stacks of documents, grainy photos, interviews with associates, handwritten notes scrawled in red ink.
My stomach twists as I study the oppo research. Deals I’ve buried, shadows I’ve cast, Vale Imports’ murky edges.
Isla’s gaze flicks to the contents, trying to learn the secrets I’ve kept from her.
I resist the instinct to prop an elbow on the table, shielding what I can, who I am.
No doubts she’s already caught glimpses of the stakes, the lies I’ve told, the man she married.
If I go through with this campaign, a lot of this will become public fodder.
Beneath the table, her hand brushes mine. It’s her first reassuring touch, and my heart catalogues it, erasing some wounds of my past.
Momentarily I grip her hard, holding her as if she’s my anchor.
“You were thorough.” I snap the top closed.
“Spent months on it.” Everett nods.
“And a lot of money. ”
“You paid for it.” He shrugs. “We’ll work with what we have. Which isn’t much.”
“Fuck you,” Brennan mutters.
Celeste cuts in, smooth as silk. “Gentlemen, let’s focus. As you may have heard, I’ve found someone to primary the senator.”
She’s funding the primary against the senator? This is news to me. Just how far is she willing to go to get rid of the cocksucker? “Does the challenger stand a chance?”
“She does not.”
Taking one for the team. I pity the woman.
On the other hand, if she does win, Celeste will have no reason to back me.
“But her participation will keep him busy.”
“Who is she?”
“The state’s attorney general.”
I let out a whistle. What the hell had Celeste promised her in return for a move that could be seen as career suicide?
“She’s appealing to voters and willing to work hard. Facing her will force him to spend money and scramble while we begin our work on your campaign.”
“What does she get out of it?” Isla asks.
“Other…opportunities as a thank-you for buying us time.”
“And we’re going to need every minute of it if Celeste moves forward with this ridiculous idea.”
At Everett’s mocking words, Brennan slams his fist on the table, making the silverware jump.
People at the closest table glance in our direction, but no one else does, not even the waitstaff.
“One more comment out of you,” Brennan warns the man.
“Goddamn it.” Everett rakes his hand into his longish hair. “Someone has to have the guts to state the fucking obvious. This is a goddamn goat fuck, and I can’t believe…”