She was calming down now, and she took another step forward. Into his personal space. He could smell the clean scent of her, even above the deliciousness simmering behind him on the stove, could pick out the barest of freckles peppering her nose and cheeks, the tiny mole she had on the tragus of her right ear, peeking out between her curls. Curls that were now sparkling in the bright, directional lighting of the kitchen. “This wasn’t some stupid, made-up threat, Ibrahim. This was a real threat,” she said and laid her hands on his chest, setting off little sparks where she touched him. He mused at her ability to do that still, after all these years, frowned at the little frown lines between her eyebrows, noticing the stray hairs encroaching there, caught the shimmer of light on her eyelashes, still wet and spiky from her crying. “And one of your men died today,” she almost whispered.
This seems like an afterthought, to me. I think you could sneak this into your immediate description of the setting, above, when he is first thrown into the room, and the later reference to it will seem more natural.
