Page 9 of Branded

I ran to California to be free of expectations, to figure out who I am outside of being Warren Briggs’s daughter. And now I’m about to be owned by a man who’s paid two million dollars for the privilege. Mrs. Sebastian Drake. For a brief moment I wonder if I could keep my name and nearly burst out laughing—no chance of that. A man with Sebastian Drake’s reputation will never allow that. He’s said to be demanding and firm, and if something belongs to him, the world knows it.

My father is going to lose his mind.

The backstage area is dimmer than the stage, my eyes struggling to adjust after the blinding spotlights. Sebastian keeps walking, his grip on my hand firm but not painful. Possessive. The handler who dressed me earlier appears with the silk robe I left on stage, and Sebastian takes it from her without a word and drapes it over my shoulders.

“Put this on,” he says quietly. There was still no “please,” or “I think you should”; it’s just a statement. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

I pull the robe closed over the lingerie, tying the belt with hands that want to shake off my body. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, uncertainty of what happens next, and oddly enough anticipation of what the future holds with this stranger beside me.

We walk down a hallway lined with dark wood paneling and oil paintings, ships in storms, hunters with dead game, men on horseback surveying endless land. Old money. The kind of wealth that doesn’t just buy things; it owns them for generations. The same type of portraits that hang in my father’s study back home, except they show Montana mountains instead of whatever coast these ships sailed on.

Sebastian stops at a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. He knocks twice, and a voice from inside calls, “Come in.”

The room is set up like a study, with leather chairs, a massive desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound first editions that are probably priceless antiques. The auctioneer sits behind the desk, and next to him stands a woman in her fifties, wearing a severe black suit and her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun.

“Mr. Drake,” the auctioneer says as he stands. “Congratulations on your purchase. This is Margaret Thornton, our legal counsel, as you know. She’ll be handling the paperwork.”

Purchase. Like I’m a fucking grand champion heifer at a stock show. All I’m missing is an ear tag since I had the lot number.

Sebastian guides me to one of the leather chairs in front of the desk and takes the seat beside me. His hand finally releases from mine, but he doesn’t pull away. His presence fills the space next to me, tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the kind of casual power that wins men like him everything they want.

I know that type. I grew up around them. Men who think their last name holds more power than it truly does. But those men have nothing on Sebastian Drake. He makes them look like boys playing at being powerful.

Margaret opens a leather portfolio and removes a stack of documents. “Let’s begin with the financial transaction, shall we?”

She slips a paper across the desk toward Sebastian. I catch a glimpse of it: bank routing numbers, wire transfer authorizations, and the number $2,000,000 in bold print.

Two million dollars. For me.

My father once told me that our prize bull, a Red Angus champion, had cost the ranch forty thousand. That seemed like an obscene amount of money for a single animal.

Two million makes that look like pocket change.

Sebastian removes his phone, types something quickly, and within seconds, Margaret’s laptop chimes. She looks at the screen and nods with satisfaction.

“Payment received and verified. Thank you, Mr. Drake.” She makes a notation on the document, then shifts her attention to me. “Now, Miss Turner⁠—”

“Briggs,” I say automatically. “My name is Lennox Briggs. Rather, Kathryn Lennox Briggs.”

Something shifts in Sebastian’s expression, just for a second. Recognition, maybe.

Margaret’s eyebrow rises slightly and she glances at the auctioneer, who just shrugs.

“There was a substitution,” he explains. “Miss Turner was unable to attend. Miss Briggs took her place.”

“Briggs? Are you from a ranching family in Montana?” Sebastian asks quietly, his eyes fixed on me now with new intensity. “Your family runs about ten thousand head on what, two hundred thousand acres?”

My heart decides this is the moment it should stop. He knows. Of course he knows.

“Three hundred thousand,” I correct him without thinking about it. Pride is stupid right now, but if he thinks he knows everything, I’m happy to prove him wrong. “And we run closer to twenty thousand head.”

He smiles slowly, almost predatorily, and irritatingly satisfied. “You’re Warren Briggs’s daughter.”

It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“Well.” He leans back in his chair, looking a little too pleased with himself. “This just got significantly more interesting.”