Lucius gives me only two options inside the elevator he's locked down: either I go to him, or he comes to me. With one hand, I reach up to fix my dress strap, but stop before I can. In the mirror, I look sensual—my short hair and the dim lighting softening my green eye while accentuating the sky-blue one, making it intense, just like his. It's as if every sign is pointing in a single direction. His reflection, leaning against the sealed door, confirms what I feel: Lucius is irresistible, powerful. He keeps his bandaged hand extended, waiting for me, and now the soft pink fabric covering my body slips to one side until it catches on my nipple, revealing exactly how turned on I am, practically screaming for him to bite me, to possess me right then and there.
I reach my hand out to his, nearly crying from the rush of emotion because I know exactly what I'm about to do. He grips me firmly and spins me around to hold me from behind, the mirror reflecting my tiny silhouette trapped against his imposing height. He takes the other strap in his mouth and pulls it away until my dress begins to slide off completely, baring my breasts. He lets go of my waist just to watch it fall to the floor by pure gravity. Then I sense him coming at me again like the very lord of desire; with one swift, precise tug, he tears the lace of my underwear, leaving me completely naked except for my shoes. I close my eyes, but he orders me to open them and look at myself. I feel a wave of shame, but then I hear his voice, thick with passion:
"I don't want to repeat myself. Open your eyes. I promise you'll see yourself exactly as you are."
I obey. He's right behind me, close to my ear, breathing against my hair. I lower my gaze. Something is different about my reflection: I'm slightly arched back, my ribs expanding with every breath. My small breasts look fuller, needy. I part my legs slightly so my hips can reflect exactly how I feel: like a real woman. Like his woman.
Lucius's injured hand travels down from my neck to my breasts, then over my stomach—which needs him like flowers need water and sun—and finally he grips me hard from below. I feel the power of his fingers in me.
"Do you love yourself the way I love you yet?" he asks.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I pant.
He starts moving his hand, and I lose myself completely. He asks again, "Do you love yourself yet? Look how small and beautiful you are. Answer me: do you love yourself?"
I obey, and I see someone wonderful—like a fairy captured by a sorcerer who adores her. The answer escapes my lips: "If you love me, Lucius... if you truly mean it... then I'll love myself too, for the rest of my life."
He undresses behind me with all the sensuality of a man obsessed with his prey. His chest, marked by strained veins, makes me feel a sudden fear of myself. I want all of him. I look so beautiful, my mouth open to catch my breath as he touches me hard again, tilting my body forward and forcing my hands against the mirror. Then he grabs my waist and commands:
"Kiss yourself!"
To obey, I have to lean in even further until my lips brush against my reflection's. It makes me burn, so lost in the fire that I do it again. I kiss myself with even more passion, my mouth pressed against that sensual version of me who looks so willing, so surrendered to him.
And then I feel the full force of his manhood enter me, pushing through every cell of my disbelieving body. He stays there, deep inside, unmoving, enjoying the way I gasp for air on the edge of overwhelming pleasure. Still, firm, deep. Only when I look back at my reflection does he begin to move—hard, fast, and determined to take my breath away. He laces his fingers through my hair to push my head forward, ordering me to kiss myself again. And I do. I want to. I'm losing control of my senses; my reflection doesn't even seem to obey anymore, as if it has taken on a life of its own. It points at me and says, "Scream it: I love myself. I love myself." It's Lucius's voice ordering me to do the same, and I answer to the rhythm of him driving deeper into me: "I love myself, I love myself," which only fuels him even more. He grips my hips and begins to thrust over and over again, making every star in the galaxy seem to descend and dance around me. My reflection calls out, "Kiss me," and he orders:
"Kiss yourself."
I press my lips to the glass once more and do it, with my whole mouth and tongue. I exhale in the madness, fogging the glass, and through that, I break the spell. But the best is yet to come. His long arms, every muscle perfectly defined, slide over my shoulders as he leans against the glass. He presses his weight against me in an animalistic position, forcing me to bend even further—receptive, dominated, ready. I see him lift a hand and bring it down hard from behind. When I feel the sting on my rear, he transfers his own raw, primal intensity to me, making me explode into the most visceral, beautiful orgasm on the planet. He finishes moments later, inside me, and I let him. I laugh and cry with happiness because I'm in love with him too. Nothing matters anymore except receiving the kisses he gives me now. It's magic, just like he said it would be. Lucius doesn't make love; with him, it's savage, unstoppable sex. Yes, you heard me right, my friend. I'm not going to deny it anymore, not ever again: I'm in love with all three of them—Lucius, Killian, and myself.
I've always asked you not to judge me, and you promised, but I have to let you scold me at least once, because I lost my head so completely that I didn't care if I got pregnant by that man. I even saw the lights of the galaxies descend toward my womb like a warning, but I couldn't—and wouldn't—stop. Don't worry: I saw the condom wrapper next to my torn underwear and breathed a sigh of relief when I realized he had used one. I loved him even more for taking care of me like that. Our combined scents were exquisite.
Of course, I couldn't go to a meeting with perfumers like that, smelling of him, so we decided to go back up and take a shower together. As the water fell, we didn't speak; we just kissed. I had to leave when I saw that the soap sliding over my body had enchanted him again, and he wouldn't let me go.
Once he changed the bandage on his hand, we left. Lucius forces me not to look at him in the elevator. He tells me loud and clear:
"Keep those eyes off me, and don't even brush against me, little girl, because I don't know what I'll do to you."
The elevator opens into the garage, and he points.
"Get in the Bugatti La Voiture Noire."
As if I would know which of those four supercars it is. I see him smile, and I can't help but smile back.
"It's the black one," he says. "Let's go."
The floor where the perfumes are actually produced isn't visible from the outside; all you see are the elegant offices. The manager is waiting for him, visibly nervous. After greeting him warmly and hearing Lucius reply in perfect French, I shiver so intensely I think, Pull yourself together, Carmilla, for God's sake! Because honestly, my friend... well, you know, right? That language in his lover's mouth sounds like that demon wants to strip me naked all over again.
Finally, we enter a room where about twelve men are seated, like emperors. They almost jump to their feet when Lucius walks in. He greets them all and immediately steps aside with the manager, whispering in my ear, "These arrogant pricks will try to tear you apart on your first day. Don't let them."
The moment he leaves, all of them—except for one very old man—look at me like I'm gutter trash. I choose to smile.
The old man introduces himself as Benoît, has me sit in his chair, and says, "To evaluate whether you have the required nose, we usually begin with a triangle test—a discrimination test where we give you three samples. Two are identical and one is subtly different. Your task is to identify the odd one out, proving you can detect the minute variations an average nose would miss."
I smile. "I can do that, no problem."
My answer triggers a wave of murmurs. Benoît explains, "Of course, dear, we assume Mr. Lucius wouldn't bring you here if you couldn't. My colleagues have little patience and far too much ego to waste time, so we'll go straight to the difficult one: raw material identification, in extreme format. We'll bring you thirty-two samples while you're blindfolded, and you'll name them aloud."
I put on a black silk blindfold. They begin handing me small strips of paper soaked in those exquisite fragrances. I start naming them: rose, jasmine, gardenia, tuberose, neroli, lavender, geranium, iris, mimosa, sandalwood, cedar, patchouli, vetiver. The florals and woods are so easy for me, but then I have to admit I've never smelled some of the others. I keep going until the end, trembling, because after missing two or three in a row out of pure ignorance, I hear some of them storm out, slamming the door.
I feel ashamed of the trust Lucius placed in me, but when I remove the blindfold, I see that half of them are standing there, smiling at me. I apologize and explain that I'm just a gardener and don't know the names of scents that aren't plant-based. To my surprise, they all give me a small round of applause.
Benoît tells me, "It's clear you have more than what it takes. The ones who left did so because they couldn't believe it—they were offended that you scored higher than some of them did."
Instead of feeling happy, I realize something I urgently need to express. Almost in a trance, I ask them to bring me samples 8, 11, 12, and 31. They obey. I take a pen, clumsily sketch a bottle, write down the proportions each should contain, and tuck it into my purse.
I know it in that moment: that combination will be more or less the right one for the fragrance of love—one that smells like Killian, like Lucius, and like me.
Benoît asks curiously, "What did you do? Show us."
Shyly, I take out the paper. "It will be called 'Green and Sky Blue,' and I swear it will be impossible to resist."
The old man looks at the paper and smiles, calling the perfume "Vert et bleu ciel" in French, and assures me they'll prepare samples in a few days.
While I wait for Lucius in an adjoining room, still dazed with satisfaction, a message from Killian comes in. It says:
"Hey, beautiful, I have to leave immediately. Turns out that country Evangelina pointed to on the chart... well, its economy just collapsed, dragging half the world down with it, just like she predicted. I'll be gone for a few days handling the crisis. I'm sorry."
I write back: "My God, this can't be happening now. I need to talk to you."
He takes a few seconds to respond, typing and deleting. The message finally reads: "I don't want to know. It's enough for me to read that you still love me. Everything else is irrelevant because I know nothing will stop me from being with you forever. I'd like to say only death could stop it, but you've already seen that in my family, not even that can separate those who love each other."
I reply: "Of course I love you."
He says: "That's more than enough for me. I don't want to know anything that happened with my brother."
Then he calls me. My heart stops for a second, but he speaks naturally:
"By the way, come back to the apartment soon. Evangelina came back crying. Her cousin brought her, and I got to meet him. His name is Bruce Bance. Please, stay away from him. I don't know... he seems nice enough, but he gives me a bad feeling, like I've seen him before."
"What's wrong with Evangelina? Did he do something to her?" I ask.
Killian answers, "No. I asked her, and she said she just got emotional seeing him, but she won't stop crying. She needs you. Wait—I know where I've seen Bruce Bance before: nowhere. It's just that he has these intense, pitch-black eyes. They're strange. They reminded me... of the man in my nightmare. The one who had you in his arms."