The Heiress He Underestimated novel Chapter 56

Chapter 56 A Walk Between Storms

Two days after the frost, the world turned to rain. It was raining heavily, turning the view from the windows into a watercolor wash of gray and green.

Elera was in her private suite not in her lab. She stood before the full–length mirror, a garment bag laid across her bed. The dress inside was not the “Midnight Requiem.” That had been armor for a different kind of war. This was something else.

With careful hands, she unzipped the bag. The fabric inside seemed to drink the dim light of the rainy afternoon, a deep, rich emerald green so dark it was almost black until it moved. It was a Celestine original, from a limited collection called “Whispering Woods.” The design was deceptively simple–a column of heavy silk with a high neck and long sleeves. But the magic was in the details. The silk had been woven with a subtle, irregular texture that caught the light like moss on stone. The sleeves were cut on a dramatic bias so they fell in soft, trailing points over the backs of her hands. And along one shoulder and down the side, almost invisible unless you were looking, was delicate embroidery of silver ferns and tiny, star–like flowers.

It was a dress that spoke of hidden places, of quiet magic, of a beauty that didn’t need to announce its presence. It was the dress of a woman who was confident in her mystery. It was, she thought, the perfect costume for Raven Shadowmere to wear while standing right under everyone’s nose.

A soft knock at her connecting door made her start. She quickly zipped the bag back up, throwing a blanket over it.

“Come in.”

Drakonius entered, moving more easily today. The cane was more a formality than a necessity. The color was better in his face, the grim set of pain around his mouth softened. He stopped just inside the room, his gaze taking in the space. This was his first time in her private sitting room. It was sparsely furnished, but the things she had brought from her old life were telling: a first edition of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein on a side table, a bizarrely beautiful fossilized ammonite acting as a paperweight, a small, exquisite Japanese woodblock print of a wave on the wall.

“Sorry to intrude,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Frost needs your authorization for the security plan for the gala. He’s waiting downstairs.”

“Of course,” she said, smoothing her sweater. She felt oddly caught, as if he could see the emerald dress through the bag and the blanket.

His eyes, however, were on the bookshelf. He walked over to it, his fingers brushing the spines. History, molecular biology, a volume of Renaissance poetry… and there, nestled between them, three Raven Shadowmere novels, their black spines stark.

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