The moment they entered the kitchen, the air seemed to shift, heavy with an unspoken tension that I couldn't ignore.
Zaya's parents were striking, in that cold, polished way that made you think of expensive art galleries and boardroom deals. Her mother had a severe elegance about her short gray hair perfectly styled, her icy blue eyes scanning the room like she was analyzing every detail.
Her father, with his jet-black hair and piercing green eyes, carried himself with the same controlled energy, his posture rigid, his gaze sharp.
And then there was her brother. He looked like a perfect blend of the two of them soft waves of dark hair, striking green-blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief, and a smile that, I had to admit, could probably charm just about anyone.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and fit, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt that somehow made him look both casual and sophisticated.
