Claimed By The Coldhearted Sterling Heir

Julian's fingers brushed the nape of her neck. His skin was shockingly cold.

Elara shivered, a goosebump ripple moving down her arms.

"Hold still," he murmured. His breath ghosted over her ear.

She gripped the edges of the mirror in front of her, watching his reflection. He was focused, his brows furrowed in concentration, like he was defusing a bomb rather than untangling hair.

He worked with surprising gentleness. He wove his fingers through the strands, isolating the knot.

"You forced it," he said quietly. "Silk requires patience."

"I'm not used to things that require patience," Elara whispered. "I'm used to things that require force."

Julian paused. His eyes met hers in the mirror. For a second, the prosecutor mask slipped. He looked... analytical. He wasn't looking at her like a woman; he was looking at her like a witness he was trying to crack.

"Force breaks things," he said.

He gave one final, decisive tug. The hair came free. Elara let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Zip it up," he said, but he didn't step away.

His hands moved to the zipper tab. His knuckles grazed her spine, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core. He pulled the zipper up slowly. The sound was a loud rasp in the quiet room.

The dress cinched tight. Julian's hands lingered on her waist for a fraction of a second, testing the fabric, checking the fit like one checks the structural integrity of a bridge.

He looked at her in the mirror. The blue dress made her skin look like porcelain. She looked regal. She looked dangerous.

Julian's jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek.

"No," he said abruptly.

Elara blinked. "What? It fits perfectly."

"It's too..." He struggled for the word, his eyes dark. "It makes you a target. Connor will see that dress and think you're playing a game. You cannot afford to be hunted tonight."

He turned and grabbed a black, high-necked gown from the rack. He shoved it at her.

"Wear this one. It's appropriate. It's armor."

"Appropriate?" Elara felt a flush of anger. "You just said I looked like a refugee. Now I look too good?"

"You look like bait," Julian growled. "And I don't have time to extract you from Connor's teeth."

He turned on his heel and grabbed the door handle. "Two minutes. Change."

He walked out.

Elara stood there, confused and breathless. She looked at the blue dress in the mirror. It made her feel powerful. And he hated it.

Outside the door, she heard Julian's voice, low and dangerous.

"Liam."

"Sir?"

"Have the blue dress archived. Put it in the secure storage at the firm. Do not let it come to the house."

"Sir? The firm? Not the wardrobe?"

"It's evidence, Liam. Evidence of a liability. Lock it away."

"Yes, sir."

Elara's breath hitched. He wasn't returning it. He was hiding it.

She quickly unzipped the dress, her fingers trembling. She pulled on the severe black gown he had chosen. It covered her from chin to wrist. It was armor.

But she knew, and he knew, what was underneath.