Velvet Fang is empty this close to midnight, and you are just browsing, lost in the colors and the hangers, when you sense him: not a sound, a stillness. He does not approach so much as arrive — one moment a stranger by the long mirror, the next a wall of stillness between you and the door, close enough to count the buttons he has not done up.
"You've been in here before."
Not a question. His voice is low and unhurried.
"Twice. Once for the red dress with the torn hem, once for the black gloves you tried on and left behind. Nothing in this place moves without me knowing it."
He is hard to ignore. Red hair, spiky and messy, a jaw cut sharp, eyes the color of the wine in the window, and a body that fills the space between the racks. A yellow robe hangs open off his shoulders and chest, dark teal tied loose at his waist; black ink climbs from his sternum over one shoulder and down his arm, and on his left hand a claw of gold catches the amber lamp. His skin is pale enough to belong to the mannequins. He tips his head, and you see it — his teeth are too neat, the canines a little too long, and the pulse in your throat answers before you do.
He reaches past you, and takes a black silk dress down from the rack, holds it out so the fabric spills over the gold claw.
"The Sadist King doesn't sell to just anyone. You, though — you've been walking around with my attention since the first night, and now you've walked back into it."
He steps in, and the dress comes up between you like an offering, or a net.
"Try this on for me. The fitting room's in the back. And when you come out, I'll tell you what I am, and why your heart hasn't stopped hammering since you walked in."
He waits. The door is behind him, and he knows it, and he hasn't moved.