Page 21 of Branded

“I’m yours.” Stronger this time, and I meet his eyes with all the hate I can muster.

“That’s my girl.” He kisses me hard, then sets me down carefully. “Now get dressed. We leave in two hours. Wear something that makes you look like the respectable woman you are.”

He walks away, leaving me naked and shaking against the wall, surrounded by thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes that are supposed to make me into his perfect wife.

I look down at my body—marked, bruised, and possessed—and something inside me softens slightly as I think about this situation.

Sebastian Drake bought me. Fucked me. Marked me. But I can’t find the anger I had for him last night. We had rough sex, he was demanding and a bit of an ass, but he wasn’t unkind. My pleasure was his priority. It wasn’t how I’d always imagined getting married but was it really that bad?

I’ll make this time the best I can, and then leave with a million dollars.

I push off the wall and walk to the clothing racks. I have two hours to make myself look like the perfect Mrs. Drake. One day down. Seven hundred and twenty-nine to go.

7

SEBASTIAN

The Monterey Cove Plaza is designed to look like anything but what it actually is: a facility where men bring their purchased wives to prove they’ve fucked them.

Sleek glass and steel architecture, palm trees lining the entrance, a marble lobby with abstract art that cost six figures. It could be a spa, a plastic surgeon’s office or any other place where wealthy people go to have their bodies attended to discreetly.

Margaret Thornton’s practice occupies the entire third floor.

I keep my hand on the small of Lennox’s back as we walk through the lobby, feeling the tension radiating through her despite the composed expression on her face. She’s dressed in dark jeans that hug her ass perfectly, a cream-colored silk blouse and ankle boots with a modest heel. She’s wearing her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, minimal makeup, diamond studs in her ears—a wedding gift sent from my mother, though Lennox doesn’t know that yet. They were brought in with the clothes this morning, with a note that said she looks forward to meeting my wife.

Lennox looks effortlessly polished, beautiful but not flashy. She is perfect.

The bite mark on her neck is visible above her collar. I made sure of that when I watched her get dressed, adjusting her blouse myself when she tried to hide it with her hair.

“Leave it,” I told her. “Margaret will want to see it.”

She flushed but didn’t argue.

Now, in the elevator climbing to the third floor, she stares straight ahead at the brushed steel doors, her jaw tight. I can see her pulse hammering in her throat, right below where I marked her.

“Relax,” I say quietly. “It’s just a formality.”

“A formality where a stranger examines my body to verify you fucked me.”

“That we fucked. I’ll show her where you marked me, if you like.” I guide her out of the elevator into a high-end waiting room. Soft lighting, comfortable seating, a receptionist behind a sleek desk.

We aren’t alone. Three other couples sit in the waiting area, and the dynamics are immediately clear. Two of the women are flipping through magazines, one silently, the other huffing while her new husband checks his phone with apparent boredom. The third woman sits rigid and still, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles have gone white. Hickeys darken her upper body where her dress doesn’t cover.

The men range in age from mid-thirties to late fifties: expensive suits, designer watches, the casual arrogance of people who’ve never been told no. One of them, the tech kid from last night who bid on every woman until he finally succeeded, catches my eye and nods in acknowledgment.

His bride is the one huffing with irritation.

I feel Lennox stiffen beside me as she takes in the scene. Her eyes move from woman to woman, seeing what I see: the evidence of wedding nights that have gone exactly as intended.

But Lennox isn’t nervous. There is no shaking. She walks to an empty seat with her back straight, her chin up, and when she sits, it’s with a grace that makes every other man in the room look at her.

Pride swells in my chest.

I sit beside her, and my hand finds her thigh possessively. She doesn’t pull away, but I feel her muscles tense momentarily under my palm before she relaxes.

“Mr. and Mrs. Drake?” The receptionist’s voice carries a professional disinterest. “Margaret is ready for you.”

We stand, and I keep my hand on Lennox’s back as I guide her toward the hallway. I can feel the other men watching us leave, assessing, envying. Let them. None of their purchases compare to mine.