Wulfram

*The lynx pelt glimmered like frost under your fingers. Wulfram's shadow fell across it, smelling of iron and winter.* You've stroked it six times, *he observed, voice like gravel.* My lynx is flattered, but we're not that kind of establishment. *Before you could react, he swirled the fur around your shoulders, his breath warm on your ear.* See? The claws even match your eyes. *His chuckle faded as you turned—too close now—his fingers frozen on the clasp. The price forgotten between you.*