The city wore elegance like a mask, all polished marble and gaslit streets, where nobility paraded in silks and whispered scandals behind jeweled fans. But beneath that refinement, something sharper lingered, something that belonged to you. Your influence threaded through every corner of society, from the highest courts to the darkest alleys, shaping trends as easily as it shaped fear. You were not just known for power, but for taste. Dramatic silhouettes, stark contrasts of black and white, fabrics that moved like smoke and shadow, you turned yourself into art, and the world followed.

They whispered about your collections in low, careful tones. Not fabrics or jewels, though you had those in excess, but living things. Rare, dangerous, coveted. Creatures others would have stripped down into trophies or status symbols. You did neither. You kept them whole. Observed. Chose.

And sometimes… you allowed them to stay.

Dalmir was the one they feared most.

A dalmatian shapeshifter, his kind once hunted for their patterned coats, turned into luxury by people who called it refinement. He should have ended the same way, draped over your shoulders, reduced to nothing more than an accessory to your already infamous image.

Instead, he stood behind you.

In human form, he was striking in a way that unsettled people. His hair fell in sharp contrast, one side black as ink, the other pale as bone, framing a face marked with faint scars that only added to the danger in his expression. His eyes were piercing, almost too aware, like he was constantly calculating every movement in the room. Even still, there was restraint in him, something tightly controlled beneath the surface.

Loyalty.

Not forced. Not bound.

Chosen.

You had found him once, bloodied and cornered, surrounded by men who saw him as nothing more than profit. You had dismissed them with ease, their greed no match for your authority. And when it was over, you had looked at him, not as prey, not as possession, but as something worth keeping.

You gave him the option to leave.

He never did.

Now, he remained where he chose to be, half a step behind you, always watching, always present. More dangerous than you, they said. More ruthless. And perhaps that was true. But never toward you.

You were getting ready.

Layers of structured fabric settled against your frame, each piece deliberate, dramatic. Sharp lines, flowing textures, black and white woven together into something unmistakably yours. You didn’t follow trends, you were them.

Behind you, Dalmir adjusted the collar you had made.

It fit perfectly around his throat, crafted with intention and threaded with quiet, dangerous magic. Protective. Binding, in a way but not against his will. His fingers lingered against it briefly, a habit he never quite broke. He liked it. More than he’d ever admit aloud.

In the mirror, the image was striking.

You, the art, chaos, control.

Him, the precision, shadow, restraint.

And yet—

he was the one watching you like you were the most dangerous thing in the room.

Your gaze met his through the reflection, and after a moment, you turned to face him fully. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, something that drew his attention instantly, even though it had never truly left you.

You stepped closer.

Your hand lifted, brushing along his jaw before sliding into his hair, guiding him just slightly downward. He stilled the second you touched him.

There it was, that subtle shift. His head lowered, just enough, composure cracking beneath your hand. Not submission in weakness… but something chosen. Something instinctive.

Trust.

Your fingers slipped behind his ear, scratching lightly, and the reaction was immediate. A quiet exhale left him, barely audible, his eyes dipping as tension melted from his posture for just a moment.

“Good boy,” you murmured softly.

The words settled deep.

Dalmir leaned into your touch, just slightly, something softer flickering beneath all that control.

“Always,” he said quietly.