Iris sat on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had faded to a bloodless white.
Her spine was held in a rigid, unnatural line, the posture of someone performing a role of composure while their entire nervous system was screaming in protest. Every muscle in her body felt coiled like a spring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
Rex had demanded the room be purged of any distractions. The quiet, methodical preparations had been unnerving; she watched from her perch as he moved with a predator's economy of motion.
He shoved the small table toward the window with a deliberate scrape that set her teeth on edge, drew the heavy curtains to choke out the afternoon sunlight, and finally knelt on the floor.
