The shift was subtle but striking—her face now carried a surgical precision, focused, almost clinical.
Her plain tunic and skirt still clung to her curves, but there was a new edge to her, like a tool honed for purpose.
And her hands—sheathed in sleek black latex gloves, the material stretched taut over her fingers, snapping faintly against her wrists as she flexed them.
The sound was sharp in the quiet cottage, a small, deliberate punctuation.
She didn't sit.
Didn't kneel.
She stopped a single step from him, towering over his seated form, her icy gaze pinning him in place with that same unblinking calm.
The herbal scent from the rafters mingled with the faint, sterile tang of the gloves, and the air seemed to tighten around them.
"Strip," she said, her voice as cold and steady as the blade of a scalpel.
Lor's brows twitched upward, a flicker of surprise he quickly smothered.
