Dinner in the Ravenshade Manor was always an affair of elegance, even when the guest list featured only one shy, confused, overthinking young woman.
Elowen sat quietly at the guest table, the candlelight flickering in soft gold tones across the obsidian-carved dining hall. A bowl of warm lentil soup—spiced just the way she liked it—sat in front of her, accompanied by herb-crusted bread, soft cheese, and roasted vegetables scented with thyme.
She picked up her spoon slowly, letting the steam rise into her face, and whispered, "Thank you so much," as the maids bowed and quietly excused themselves.
They didn't answer. But one smiled.
That surprised her.
She began to eat, the warmth of the soup sinking into her belly like comfort she hadn't realized she needed.
She closed her hands around the bowl, soaking in its warmth, when a memory returned uninvited—
---
Earlier that afternoon.
In the library, after that moment, after Seraphine had made her dramatic exit, Julian had remained quiet.
And then he'd said, "Well," with that lazy tone. "Now I do feel warm."
She had wanted to bury herself between the library shelves and become a footnote in a forgotten novel.
Instead, she'd tried to chase after Seraphine. Maybe to explain. Maybe to scream.
But Seraphine had vanished, like mist through keyholes.
Left with no better option, Elowen had dragged herself back into the heart of the library, shoulders hunched, her head buried in her hands.
"How do I explain to Seraphine?" she whispered to herself.
"No need," came his voice, smooth and annoyingly near.
She raised her head. Julian stood by the arched window, arms crossed, his shirt still undone, his gaze nonchalant. Like her embarrassment was entertainment.
"You're not a child, Grantham. You don't owe anyone explanations for every... kiss."
"Kiss?" she blinked. "I didn't kiss anyone!"
He raised a brow, tilting his head as though amused by her honesty. "You didn't? Or... you haven't?"
She squinted at him. "Why such a question, my Lord?"
"It'd be a shame to keep those beautiful lips untested and unexplored," he said with ease.
Elowen blinked rapidly. "Exploring what, my Lord?"
Julian smirked. One of those deadly ones—crooked, slow, and devilish.
"You love reading, Grantham. Go study."
She stared at him. "My Lord?"
He turned, staring right back at her. "Seems you enjoy calling titles, Grantham?"
"No, My Lord."
Oops!
She slapped a palm over her mouth. Too late.
He stepped closer, his tone dark and almost teasing. Now standing close to her and whispered in her ears, he didn't start talking right away, his eyes warm breath fanned her neck, hairs stood on her cape and she was burning. A certain warmth spread through her evenly. The devil! He was bare, shirtless and...
He brushed her cheek with the back of his palm, taunting her slowly. He held her chin and turned her face to the side where he could whisper to her ears.
"Entitle me again," he said softly, "and I'll have you crying that underneath me."
Elowen froze.
A heat unlike anything she'd ever felt rushed to her cheeks.
He wasn't even smiling at first.
But then... he did.
Not a grin. Not a smirk.
Just the faintest, smallest curve of lips—his first real smile.
"You look cute when shy, Grantham," he said as he walked away, still shirtless.
She stared after him in disbelief, her heart a messy sonnet.
---
Back in the dining room, the soup was cooling, forgotten.
She'd eaten enough. The tension had fed her more than food.
Just then, Mrs. Jan stepped in, carrying a tray with empty goblets.
Elowen stood quickly. "Thank you so much for the dinner, Mrs. Jan."
The elderly housekeeper smiled, eyes twinkling. "Ah, don't thank me, sweetling. Thank Lord Julian. Said you were cold and needed the warmest soup we had."
Elowen's chest fluttered. "He said that?"
"Mhm." Jan winked. "Warming hearts in his own devilish way."
Something brewed in Elowen's chest—she didn't know whether it was comfort, confusion, or something entirely different.
She stepped out of the manor soon after, drawing her shawl close.
Rain still fell lightly, the air crisp as the Ravenshade carriage rolled up the curved drive.
She climbed in, cheeks still warm, and the velvet cushion felt like a haven after such a charged day.
As the coach moved down Eldhollow's polished roads, past carriages, parks, and cloaked travelers, she leaned her head back, letting her thoughts drift.
Her lips tingled slightly. Not from the cold.
But from a statement.
'A shame to keep those beautiful lips still...'
She flushed again, pulling the hood of her cloak over her face, laughing at herself wondering while she was feeling the way she did.
The ride to Greystone Dock took almost two hours in the weather. She drifted in and out of sleep, fingers gripping the edge of Julian's coat still wrapped around her from earlier.
When the carriage finally came to a stop outside her home, she descended with a tired smile and tiptoed up the small steps to the door.
And then she paused.
There—at the sitting room window—two familiar heads hovered, backs turned toward her.
Elowen narrowed her eyes.
They were peeking into something... no, not something—a package.
She opened the door quietly.
They didn't notice.
She took a few steps closer, clearing her throat dramatically.
Marianne and Maeryn turned around like children caught with a stolen cake.
"Ah—Elowen!" Marianne said too quickly.
Maeryn gave an awkward laugh. "Oh, you're home early."
"It's nearly midnight."
"Still early," Marianne shrugged.
Elowen crossed her arms, looking pointedly at the open designer box in front of them.
"Is that mine?"
They exchanged a guilty look.
"Maybe."
Elowen moved closer, lifting the lid.
Inside, nestled in silk, was an elegant green handbag embroidered with silver vines—expensive, rare, and unmistakably personal.
A note tucked inside read:
For the lady who wears green better than the heiresses.
_Ewan Blair.
Elowen stared.
Marianne and Maeryn leaned in, waiting for her reaction.
She said nothing. But her blush said everything.