Page 13 of Branded

Not Lennox Briggs any more. Not Warren’s daughter or a fourth-generation Montana rancher’s heir. Just Mrs. Drake. Property. Possession. Wife.

He moves to my side and offers me his hand. “No need to change, we’ll use the private exit. Come on, wife. Let’s go home.”

5

SEBASTIAN

Lennox sits in the passenger seat of my Aston Martin, staring out the window at the dark California coastline as we drive north toward The Drake Hotel. The streetlights cast intermittent shadows across her face: light, dark, light, dark, highlighting the tension in her jaw. She pulls the silk robe tighter around herself, her arms crossed over her chest like she can create a barrier between us with fabric and body language.

It won’t work. She is mine now. Legally, completely, irrevocably mine for the next twenty-four months.

Mrs. Sebastian Drake.

The satisfaction of that settles deep in my chest, warm and possessive. I went to that auction expecting nothing, the same parade of women I’ve seen a hundred times before. Instead, I found Kathryn Lennox Briggs. A woman who signed away two years of her life to save a friend.

That kind of loyalty is rare. That kind of strength is rarer.

And now she belongs to me.

I let my right hand drop from the steering wheel and place it on her thigh. She stiffens immediately, every muscle tensing beneath the silk. But she doesn’t push me away. Doesn’t say anything. Just stares harder out the window like she can will herself somewhere else.

I squeeze gently, feeling the firm muscle beneath smooth skin. Ranch work built that kind of strength, hours in the saddle, hauling hay, working cattle. She isn’t some gym-sculpted California girl. This is real, functional power.

“We’re almost there,” I say quietly, but she doesn’t respond.

I pull into the private garage beneath The Drake, my reserved spot closest to the executive elevator. The Aston Martin’s engine purrs into silence, and the sudden quiet feels oppressive. Lennox doesn’t move or look at me. She just sits there with her arms still crossed and her breathing carefully controlled.

“Come on,” I say, opening my door. The interior light floods the car, and I catch the way her knuckles have gone white from gripping her own arms. “We’re home.”

“This isn’t home, this is my workplace.” Her voice is flat, emotionless. “This is a prison with better amenities.”

I walk around to her side, my footsteps echoing in the concrete garage, and open her door. She still doesn’t move. I reach in, grip her elbow gently but firmly, and pull her to standing.

“Would you prefer I take you to an actual prison?” I let my thumb stroke the inside of her elbow, feeling her pulse racing beneath the skin. “Because that’s where your friend would have ended up if you’d refused to sign those papers. If she was lucky.”

She jerks her arm from my grip and moves away from the car, the robe falling open to reveal the black lace underneath. Candlelight from the club’s preparation room was one thing; the harsh LED lighting of the garage is something else entirely. I can see every detail now. How the lace hugs her breasts, barely containing them. The shadow of her nipples through sheer fabric. The delicate strip of fabric that constitutes the waistband of the thong riding low on her hips.

My body responds immediately, heat pooling low in my gut, my cock hardening at the sight of what I now possess.

I place my hand on the small of her back, feeling her spine go rigid at the contact, and guide her toward the elevator. Each step she takes is deliberate and controlled.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime. I press my palm against the biometric scanner, which requires fingerprint authorization for penthouse access, and the car begins its ascent. Twenty floors. Two minutes of silence except for a mechanical hum and the sound of Lennox’s breathing, slightly too fast, slightly too shallow.

I lean against the brass railing and watch her. It is almost laughable; she is standing as far from me as the elevator will allow, staring at the floor indicator as it climbs: 5… 10… 15…

“Nervous?” I ask.

Her eyes cut to me, sharp and angry. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re trying to figure out how to play this.” I push off the railing and cross to her in two strides. She has nowhere to go, her back against the elevator wall. I brace my hands on either side of her head, caging her in. “How to protect yourself from what’s coming.”

“Aren’t I right to?” She lifts her chin defiantly, even though I can see the pulse hammering in her throat.

“Maybe.” I lean in, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “But you’re not the scared type, are you, Lennox? You’re the planning type. And you’re already thinking three steps ahead.”

Her breath hitches when my mouth grazes her earlobe.

The elevator dings at the penthouse level. The doors slide open directly into my suite.