LUCY
If Tavric notices the transformation—the liquid, molten gold of my hair or the newfound, dangerous curves of my body—he doesn't say a word.
He doesn't even show a flicker of surprise as I step out of the bathroom. He rather leaves me a passing glance, his face a blank, unreadable mask, before striding—fast, really—to his post by the window again.
What is his obsession with that specific patch of glass? I wonder, clicking the bathroom door shut behind me. And where did his notable smirk go?
I slip my feet into the flip-flops by the wall, the rubber quiet against the wood, and head over to the small velvet couch facing the window. I sit down, trying to appear as calm as possible for the looming discussion, even as my nerves feel like frayed wires.
"Have my friends been here this morning?" I settle on a lighter topic, more to calm myself and keep me on a steady footing than out of actual curiosity.
