Her expression had gone completely, utterly serious. Cold in the way that wasn't cruel but was absolute — the face she used when she had decided something and the deciding was entirely finished.
She looked at him the way she looked at everything she intended to use well.
"Strip," she said.
The word was quiet. Final. No performance in it.
Mahir's flush deepened — color spreading properly now, ears tipping back slightly. But his hands moved to the first fastening of his jacket without hesitation, because whatever his face was doing, his body understood the order perfectly well.
Jacket first. Set aside with more care than the situation technically required — old habit, formal training.
The undershirt.
The rest, piece by piece, folded or set aside or simply removed with quiet efficiency.
