This guy... how could he insightfully grasp her aesthetic so accurately?
Just then, the shop owner appeared silently beside them, as if condensing out of the shadows.
"Aha, it's you."
Her voice was as raspy as rubbing silk, her gaze falling on Victor.
"The boy who came for community service last time with that... um... little golden sun. Have your eyes on 'The Ravens Whisper'? Good taste."
Her fingertip pointed to an inconspicuous brass price tag, the numbers carved on it enough to give most people a heart attack.
"A Victorian-era treasure, custom-made for a notorious widow. It has been waiting for a master worthy of it for a long time."
Wednesday's brow furrowed imperceptibly, and she moved her gaze away from the gown, clearly prepared to give up.
Azem Gray, however, let out an even more arrogant smile.
He snapped his fingers, and then, from his seemingly empty pockets, he pulled out stack after stack of thick US dollars.
The cash was piled haphazardly on the nearby glass counter, as if it were mere scrap paper.
"Money is never an issue, respected lady."
His tone was light and certain.
"But I also need a suit that can complement this gown. I believe Ulias Emporium will never disappoint its guests, will it?"
He deliberately drawled his words with a provocative expectation.
The shop owner's eyes suddenly lit up in the dim light, like a nocturnal creature discovering rare prey.
"Of course."
She turned and took a suit out of a walnut wardrobe carved with mysterious symbols.
It was vintage British dark grey plaid, with rounded lapels and an exquisitely elegant slim fit, paired with a silk shirt. The overall style was low-key yet filled with a lethal aristocratic aura, making it a perfect match for 'The Ravens Whisper'.
Azem Gray picked up the dark gown and handed it to Wednesday, the smile on his face so bright it seemed capable of dispelling all the gloom in the shop.
"If you please, my Queen."
Wednesday gave him a deep look and, in the end, said nothing.
She raised her head, as if accepting a rightful tribute, took the heavy and magnificent dress, and turned into the fitting room draped with black velvet curtains.
When Wednesday finished changing and stepped out from behind the black velvet curtains, Azem Gray had already finished changing into his suit and had been waiting for some time.
The dark grey plaid British suit fit his frame perfectly, the sharp tailoring outlining the fierce lines of his broad shoulders and narrow waist.
The silk shirt underneath was the ultimate black, shimmering with a dark luster, blending seamlessly with his current aggressive and tense temperament dominated by the 'Riot' trait.
He was no longer the laughing, mad youth, but more like a young tyrant stepping out of the abyss, ready to conquer the world—elegant and dangerous.
Almost at the same moment, Azem Gray also saw her.
The layered black gauze skirt flowed like the night itself beneath her feet, the complex pleating like thorns and roses entwined around pale skin.
The absolute black set off her ice-like face and frigid aura, making her look like a queen stepping out of a Gothic castle—beautiful, lethal, and unquestionable.
Their gazes collided, both slightly startled.
The air seemed to freeze, with only the old floor clock in the shop making a dull ticking sound, as if counting for this silent coronation.
The next moment, the corner of Azem Gray's mouth curled into a highly possessive arc.
He strode forward and, without a word and with extreme dominance, took Wednesday's hand, which was clad in a black mesh glove.
His other hand firmly encircled her slender waist, tightened by the gown's belt, pulling their distance to a range far beyond social etiquette.
He lowered his head slightly, his dark eyes swirling with undisguised admiration and a near-feral desire for conquest, his voice deep and magnetic:
"Welcome back to your throne, my Queen."
His actions were bold in the extreme, and his words were even more transgressive.
But strangely, this suit that perfectly blended with his temperament, and this irresistible force amplified to the extreme by Riot...
...formed a contradictory yet lethal harmony with the icy aura around Wednesday that kept people a thousand miles away.
It was as if they were meant to be this way—
He was her blade and scepter; she was his crown and code.
Wednesday did not push him away immediately.
Her thick eyelashes fluttered slightly, and her dark pupils reflected Azem Gray's current, highly oppressive figure.
No joy or anger could be seen on her pale face, but those always tightly pursed, sharp lips seemed to loosen ever so slightly for an instant.
She simply held her head high, accepting his near-vowed embrace and title, as if all of this were a tribute she rightfully deserved.
The shadows in the shop seemed to deepen, enveloping the two of them, like a double portrait frozen in eternal darkness—
The Tyrant and his Queen.
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