By the time Losiya stepped out of the room again, she had already shed her delicate nightgown, exchanging it for the familiar comfort of her usual inner garments. Within the confines of the estate, she favored darker-colored underlayers—deep blues and charcoal grays that blended seamlessly into the shadows of the corridors. Her loose trousers, tailored for ease of movement, whispered softly against her legs as she walked.
Her gait was imposing, carrying the quiet authority of The Countess. Her posture remained upright, shoulders squared and chin slightly lifted, as though even in private moments, she refused to yield to weariness. Yet, despite her regal bearing, there was no mistaking the faint, jagged lines marring the pale skin of her neck—claw marks, stark and unhealed, a silent testament to something violent, something raw.
"Is your neck okay?" Catherine asked with concern.
