Page 101 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

A small bar gleams near the front, and farther back I catch a glimpse of a private bedroom cabin. Everything smells faintly of leather and expensive cologne. Lucian leads me to a wide, plush seat in the middle section and buckles me in himself, his fingers brushing my thighs as he secures the belt. Caleb takes the seat on my other side, his big hand resting possessively on my knee.

“This is ours,” Lucian tells me quietly as the engines begin to hum. “Mine and Caleb’s.”

“It’s an absurd expense.”

No matter how long I’m in their world, I won’t get used to this kind of luxury.

“Is it?” Lucian asks. “Our time is worth something. And the convenience is even more important.”

A mimosa arrives almost immediately, crisp and cold, bubbles dancing against the glass. I take a grateful sip, letting the alcohol loosen some of the tension in my shoulders.

The flight passes in a haze of quiet luxury. Lucian works on his laptop for a while, one hand never leaving my thigh. Caleb reads something on his tablet, occasionally reaching over to feed me bites of fresh fruit from a tray the attentive crew brings. They’re both so casually possessive, touching me constantly—stroking my arm, brushing my hair back, resting a hand on my knee. It should feel suffocating. Instead, it feels…steadying. Like anchors in the middle of everything that’s changing too fast.

By the time the pilot announces our descent, we’ve eaten a light breakfast, Caleb has made a number of calls, and Lucian has answered numerous emails and participated in an online meeting with China.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s something to be said about the convenience. To them, this is like a restaurant and office in the sky.

The moment we step off the plane, the heat hits me in a dry, dizzying wave.

Houston is humid and heavy, but Vegas is dry, scorching, the desert sun blazing down even through the overcast filter of my sunglasses.

My sundress clings to my damp skin, the lack of underwear making every step a vivid reminder of the orders they gave me before we left Houston. My nipples are still sensitive from this morning, and the fabric brushes them with every step.

A sleek black SUV waits on the tarmac. The driver greets Lucian and Caleb with the same respectful deference as the flight crew. “Mr. Hawthorne, Mr. Pierce. Ma’am.” He tips his head toward me. “Welcome to Las Vegas.”

The drive to the Bella Rosa Resort is a blur of glittering buildings and flashing lights, even in daylight. When we pull up to the tower, the luxury is immediate—valets in crisp uniforms, marble floors, air-conditioning so perfect it feels like stepping into another world. The lobby is breathtaking—high ceilings, massive chandeliers, the faint sound of slot machines in the distance like a siren song, tempting, but ultimately devastating.

We don’t make it ten steps before a massive man in a dark suit appears in front of us. His arrival was silent and efficient, and I have no idea where he came from.

He gives Lucian and Caleb a respectful nod. “Mr. Hawthorne. Mr. Pierce.” Then he looks at me. “Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce. Welcome to the Bella Rosa. I’m Mario. Mr. Carrington asked me to bring you up.”

Mr. Carrington? As in Lorenzo Carrington? The owner of the place and reputed mobster, related to the Moretti family?

But as we’re preparing to board an elevator, Lorenzo himself exits.

He’s wearing a perfectly tailored dark suit, but there’s nothing flashy about him. People move around him without seeming to realize they’re doing it, giving him space as naturally as water divides around stone.

Lucian extends his hand. “Lorenzo.”

“Lucian. Caleb.” He shakes hands with both men before his attention settles on me. “And you must be Sophie.”

There’s something unnerving about being assessed by a man who apparently sees everything that happens beneath his roof, but his smile is warm when he offers me his hand.

“Congratulations on your marriage. We’re honored you’re celebrating your honeymoon with us.”

I slip my hand into his. “Thank you.”

“If there’s anything you need while you’re here, don’t hesitate to let us know.”

Lorenzo looks at my husbands. “Your penthouse is ready.”

Apparently that concludes our audience with the King of Las Vegas.

We’re whisked straight up to the penthouse suite without stopping at reception. The doors open into pure opulence—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip, a sprawling living area, and a bedroom that makes the one in Houston look modest.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawthorne-Pierce. Mr. Hawthorne. Mr. Pierce. Welcome to the Bella Rosa.”

I stop.