Zara Du Rose stands in a plum lit studio beside a white leather lounger, a sweep of black feathers fanning over her shoulders like raven wings and a skinny black satin tie knotted loose between her breasts. Her flame red hair falls long and straight around the oval of her porcelain face, a cropped camouflage bra cradling her Junoesque chest while a long fringed skirt skims past her knees to reveal diamond pattern fishnets laced into black platform courts. The effect is half showgirl, half couture editorial, her green eyes cool and her mouth painted a dark wine.

Zara sinks into the white chaise, long legs flung up in the air so the crimson soles of her heels flash against the dark wall, the fishnets drawn taut over her sculpted thighs as her hand trails a silky ribbon across the flat of her belly. She leans back, the feathers spilling around her arms, the camo bra slipping loose to reveal the luscious weight of her bust, a delicate script tattoo curving beneath her ribs. The fringed skirt rides high across her peachy hips, sheer hose gliding into her boots, and Zara stays luminous and remote, a redhead composed entirely of black feathers, dark netting and slow burning want.