While My Husband Cheated I Married His Powerful Brother novel Chapter 83

Chapter 83: Chapter 83 A Craftsman’s Secret

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the moon through the balcony doors.

Dorian lay on the sofa, his long legs hanging over the edge, his eyes open. He had been staring at the ceiling for hours as sleep would not come.

He turned his head. Across the room, Veyra was asleep on the bed. Her bandaged hands rested on her stomach. Her breathing was slow and even. Her face was peaceful.

He watched her for a moment. Then he spoke.

"Veyra."

She did not stir.

"Veyra," he said again, softer.

She murmured something in her sleep. A word. A name. He could not make it out.

He sat up. He swung his legs off the sofa. He walked to the bed. He stood over her.

"Stay away from Wesley Wynn," he said. His voice was low and serious. "For the next year. Do not get close to him. Do not trust him. Do not accept anything from him."

Veyra did not open her eyes. But her lips moved.

"Okay," she whispered.

She turned her head on the pillow. Her breathing deepened.

She was already asleep again.

Dorian watched her for a moment longer. Then he nodded.

He waited until her breathing was deep and even. Until he was certain she was asleep.

Then he turned and walked toward the walk-in closet.

The closet was large. Racks of suits. Shelves of shoes. Drawers of accessories. He walked past them all. He stopped in front of the back wall.

There was a sconce on the wall. An old brass lamp that looked like it belonged in a museum. He reached up. He pressed the base of the sconce.

The wall slid open.

Behind it was a hidden chamber.

The room was small. Windowless. The walls were lined with shelves. The shelves held metal components, gun parts, boxes of ammunition, and combat gear. A workbench sat in the center. A lamp with a green glass shade hung above it.

Dorian stepped inside. The wall slid closed behind him.

He switched on the desk lamp.

The green light cast shadows across the workbench. He pulled out a stool. He sat down.

For a moment, he simply sat there. His hands rested on the wooden surface. The wood was scarred. Burn marks from soldering irons. Scratches from blades. Stains from oils.

He had spent many nights in this room. Building. Repairing. Creating.

Tonight, he had a different purpose.

He pulled out a sketchbook. He flipped to a blank page. He picked up a pencil.

He began to draw.

The design came quickly. Fingerless gloves. Reinforced knuckles. Padded palms. The fingers would be exposed for dexterity. The wrists would have adjustable straps. The material would need to be tough. Flexible. Protective.

He sketched the outline. Added details. Adjusted the proportions.

He looked at his own hands. He measured the length of his fingers. The width of his palms. He made notes on the sketch.

He was not making the gloves for himself.

He was making them for her.

He set the pencil down. He walked to the shelves.

He searched through the materials. Leather. Suede. Kevlar. Carbon fiber.

Then he found it.

A piece of lizard skin. Dark brown. Almost black. The scales were small and tight. The surface was smooth but textured. It was flexible, durable and rare.

He had acquired it years ago. He had been saving it for something special.

He carried the lizard skin to the workbench. He laid it flat. He placed his sketch beside it.

He picked up a curved blade. A scalpel precise, sharp and he began to cut.

The hours passed.

The room was silent except for the soft whisper of the blade against the skin. The scratch of the pencil. The click of the lamp.

Dorian worked methodically. He cut the leather into shape. He stitched the pieces together. He reinforced the knuckles with small metal plates. He padded the palms with thin gel inserts.

He tested the fit against his own hands. Adjusted. Trimmed. Stitched again.

His fingers were steady. His eyes were focused.

He did not think about the time. He did not think about sleep. He did not think about anything except the gloves.

By the time he finished, the first light of dawn was seeping through the cracks in the wall.

He held up the gloves, black, sleek. Perfect.

He set them on the workbench. He turned off the lamp and the room went dark.

The sun was high when Dorian opened his eyes.

He was still in the hidden chamber. He had fallen asleep at the workbench. His head was resting on his folded arms. The gloves were still on the table.

He sat up. His neck was stiff. His shoulders ached.

He looked at his watch. Noon.

He stood up. He stretched. He left the chamber. The wall slid closed behind him.

He walked out of the walk-in closet. The bedroom was empty. The bed was made but Veyra was gone.

He surmised she must be at the shooting range. Practicing. As always.

He went to the bathroom. He took a shower. The hot water eased the tension in his muscles. He dressed in a dark suit. White shirt. No tie.

He picked up the gloves. He placed them in a black paper bag. The bag was unmarked. No logos. No writing.

He walked downstairs.

The living room was occupied.

Beatrice Hawthorne sat on the sofa, reading a magazine. Harold Thorne was in the armchair, scrolling through his phone. Phillip Thorne stood by the window, talking on the phone.

They looked up when Dorian entered.

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