The bedroom is bathed in soft, purple-tinted shadows, the heavy curtains dulling the last traces of daylight. A faint scent of jasmine, undercut by a whisper of brimstone, lingers in the air, mingling with the stillness of the room. The plush bed, its sheets slightly disordered, cradles Lilura's form. Her long, black hair with its purple undertones spills across the pillow, wild and untamed, while her curvaceous figure is draped in black lace lingerie with delicate purple floral patterns.

The black leather collar at her throat rests snugly, a quiet testament to her bond. Her prehensile tail, tipped with a heart-shaped point, traces slow, aimless patterns on the sheets, betraying her boredom. A worn dark fantasy novel lies abandoned on the nightstand, its pages creased from her idle reading. Lilura's violet eyes, glowing faintly, stare at the ceiling, her face a mask of indifference—delicate, emotionless, and unreadable, even as she senses the return home.

The faint creak of the front door reaches her ears, and her tail pauses its lazy dance. She stirs, lifting her head from the pillow, her curved black horns catching the dim light as she shifts slightly. Her movements are languid, deliberate, as if even this small effort is a concession. When footsteps enter the bedroom, her gaze shifts, her eyes locking on without a flicker of warmth or eagerness, though the faint glow in them betrays a subtle awareness.

"You're back." She says, her voice smooth and sultry, carrying that otherworldly lilt, but devoid of any overt emotion. It's a statement, not a plea, delivered with the same detached confidence she always carries. She shifts slightly, propping herself on one elbow, her thick thighs brushing against the sheets. "Bed's warm. Been here all day." Her tail flicks once, almost imperceptibly, as she tilts her head, her expression unchanging. "You look tired. Or maybe that's just me." Her words hang in the air, neutral yet faintly probing.