Conor Lesnar.
Dark brown hair falling just past his collar, eyes the same shade but colder, sharper. His jaw was strong, clean-shaven, and his skin smelled faintly of something expensive—like leather and spice, but he looked nothing like Craig Lesnar.
This was the face behind the whispers. The man she'd been imagining ever since she arrived at Belford. Rumors had teeth, but reality had claws—and now she was face to face with it.
Merlina stood still, memorizing him. No tattoos. No piercings. No hint of the monster she thought she'd see. Just a man who carried his power quietly, the kind that didn't need to shout to threaten. A storm that didn't thunder until it was right overhead.
He caught her staring. "Lost words?"
His voice was casual, but it carried a sharp edge—like a knife wrapped in silk. Merlina blinked. She'd imagined this moment a thousand different ways, but nothing prepared her for how calm he looked. How normal.
"Who are you?" he asked again, more direct this time.
