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.

The car tires hummed a different tune as they hit the cobblestones of Beacon Hill. The ride became bumpier, more textured.

Elara looked out the window. The houses here were old-red brick, black shutters, gas lamps flickering in the twilight. It felt like a movie set, or a museum where people weren't allowed to touch anything.

They stopped in front of a massive wrought-iron gate. A security guard stepped out of a booth, saw the license plate, and saluted. The gates swung open with a majestic, silent glide.

The Sterling estate loomed ahead. It wasn't a house; it was a fortress. Ivy climbed the walls like veins. The windows were dark, staring like empty eye sockets.

"Listen to me," Julian said.

Elara turned to him. The car had stopped, but he hadn't opened the door.

"You are the granddaughter of Arthur's war buddy. Your parents died in a car crash. You grew up in a small town, but you are genteel. You are grateful."

"I know the script," Elara said.

"This isn't a script, Elara. It's a survival guide." Julian leaned in. "Arthur values two things: Loyalty and appearances. In this house, the law isn't what's written in the Constitution. The law is Sterling. And Sterling is the law."

"So I can't make mistakes?"

"You can make mistakes," Julian said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You just can't get caught. That is the first rule of this family."

The driver opened the door.

Julian stepped out and extended his hand to her.

Elara took it. His grip was firm, grounding. She stepped out onto the granite driveway.

A line of staff stood on the front steps. A butler in a tuxedo stood at the head.

"Welcome home, Mr. Julian," the butler said. He bowed slightly to Elara. "Miss Vance."

Elara felt like an imposter in her expensive black dress. She felt the mud of the trailer park still clinging to her soul.

"Head up," Julian murmured near her ear. "Walk like you own the pavement."

Elara straightened her spine. She channeled the anger she felt-anger at Ray, anger at Julian, anger at the world-and turned it into posture.

They walked up the steps. The heavy oak doors groaned open.

The foyer was cavernous. A crystal chandelier the size of a compact car hung from the ceiling. The floor was black and white marble, like a giant chessboard.

Portraits of dead white men lined the walls, all sneering down at her.

"Library," Julian told the butler. "Is he awake?"

"He is waiting, sir."

Julian guided her down a long hallway lined with velvet runners. The silence in the house was heavy, oppressive. It felt like the air was pressurized.

Julian stopped in front of a set of double doors. He turned to her and adjusted the collar of her dress. His fingers grazed her throat.

"Fear keeps you sharp," he said, seeing the terror in her eyes. "Use it."

He pushed the doors open.