With a held breath, Merlina turned slowly, and there he was.
Charles Lesnar.
He stood by the doorway like he'd been carved from the same glass and steel that built this house.
His hair, dark with streaks of silver, framed a face that might've been handsome once…and still was, only colder now. His eyes a pale green that didn't soften when they landed on her.
The gray shirt he wore looked simple, but on him, it felt like a statement, power without needing to prove it. She couldn't quite place his smell, cedar and vetiver, cool and sharp, the kind of scent that didn't belong to ordinary men.
And now, standing this close, she realized he was even more intimidating than she'd imagined.
Merlina forced herself to match his gaze. "Mr. Lesnar," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
He didn't answer right away. His eyes moved over her like he was taking her measure, not with interest, but calculation.
