The Nobleman With His Hand On His Chest Novels & Stories

I open my mouth to make a joke before easing my way from the conversation to return back to my room, however I’m stopped short as Larsen slowly tugs at his gloves, pulling them off. I stare down at his hands, terrified. They are perfectly untouched and normal looking, and yet seeing his bare skin only means one thing, the reality of that sinking deep into my stomach. "You should probably keep your gloves on,” I murmur distractingly, looking down at him as he flexes his fingers, examining them quietly. Would it be much use for me to run? He’s blocking my way to Stace, and Kastriv could be anywhere in the manor by now. That means I’m left to face this powerful Noble by myself, who looks ready

Her gaze immediately landed on him. Thomas. He stood at the far end of the grand hall, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders squared, his tall frame imposing as ever. He was leaning slightly against the marble column, but his entire posture radiated restrained tension. The soft light from the chandelier above cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw and the unreadable depth of his dark eyes.

Prince Charles gritted, eyeing me carefully before I noticed his hand cupping the large gash on his chest, the trickle of blood pooling on the purple suit staining the area black. “Here, let’s get you to the car,” I gritted through clenched teeth, managing to push the words past the lump that had grown in my throat and tugging the man’s hand free when he resisted before hooking it over one shoulder, grunting when he leaned his weight on me a little. I could hear the whirl of sirens in the distance as they got closer and I yelped, slamming to a stop when the purple-eyed man stopped suddenly in his tracks.

The adorable and cute little Angel was playing by the wide French window. She raised her small hand and counted the vehicles that were passing by downstairs. Monique felt bored sitting on the couch. When she thought of what he said just before, she could not help but peeked at Henry. This man looked serious while he worked and was ridiculously handsome. He sat there like a nobleman in the Middle Ages. His tall and straight back was synonymous with aristocracy. His straight sword-like eyebrow, his straight nose, and the outline as handsome as a sculpture. He habitually pursed his thin sexy lips with structured lines, looking elegant, peaceful and gorgeous.

The seven nobles shivered as they read the letters. One of them was far more enraged than the others, yet he remained calm enough to seek permission, "Baron, could I have the privilege to revenge my son's death?" "You are free to do whatever you choose." The noble threw the letter away and lunged at Viscount Han, punching him numerous times and even tearing off his skin with his fingernails. The viscount shouted in anguish, but everyone remained silent. The remaining nobles appeared to be waiting their turn. Thud! Thud! Thud!

Then he said to Thea, "Miss Thea, he has been waiting for you inside for a long time. Go ahead." Thea stood at the door and took a deep breath. Then he pushed open the door and walked in. She stood by the door and saw a specially made wheelchair placed prominently in the center. Sitting upright in the wheelchair was a man. Even from behind, he looked handsome and dignified like a noble gentleman. His hand rested on the armrest of the wheelchair, his fair and slender hand excessively beautiful. If one were to overlook the centipede-like scar that extended from his sleeve on the back of his hand.

That quiet is enough. Faces turn my way. Some carry hope. Others wear doubt like a mask. A few let anger show through. My hand lifts, showing the iron ring that sits plain on my finger. A hush follows - then sharp breaths move through the crowd of nobles. This mark? They recognize it right away. Not just metal. Something older hums beneath it. Silence guards what words never could.

My hands are frozen where they rest against the armrests, stiff with disuse. “I—” My mouth is dry, my tongue thick and clumsy. Heat crawls up my neck like spreading fire as I sweep my gaze across the assembled nobles. Admiral Nugen stands near the marble columns with his weathered men, his pale-brown eyes sharp despite the soft lines age has carved around them. Years of salt and sand and battles have left their mark on his face, but his attention is laser-focused, missing nothing.

Warm. She didn't even have a proper hairband. Neither did he. But he had a stolen one, pressed over his heart. Did that count as having something? He didn't know. All he knew was the wind tonight wasn't as cold as last night. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe not. --- 【The Hairband Beneath the Chest Plate】 After that, before every battle, he touched the inside of his chest plate. Not deliberately. His hand just went there on its own. Left hand pulling the edge of the plate aside, right hand slipping in. Fingertips grazing the slide of silk. Then pulling back. Confirming it was still there.

Aruna As I sat in the living room my eyes wandered to the pictures hanging on the cream coloured wall to my left. My eyes zeroed on a picture of a boy wearing a white t-shirt and black half-pants holding a trophy, giving a toothy grin, there was another boy on his right who looked slightly older, wearing black trousers and a blue shirt and a man in his late 40s perhaps, wearing a black suit standing the older boy's right and a beautiful woman in her late 30s wearing salwar suit, standing on his left. All smiling brightly.