Page 33 of Desperate People

In my mind, they do.

They smell like her.

A complex symphony of contradictions.

Soft and sharp. Innocence threaded with heat. Warm vanilla twisted with cool florals.

Classy. Elegant. But somehow still raw.

Unfiltered.

Real.

She smells like everything I never knew I needed until the second I met her.

And now?

Now I’d burn cities just to keep that scent close.

Fresh and clinging to me.

I want it on my clothes. My sheets. My skin.

Because that scent?

It’s hers.

And she’s mine.

Every cell in my body knows it.

The dragon in my chest—whatever the fuck you want to call the violent, territorial madness inside me—knows it.

It calms under her scent.

Sharpens, too. Becomes lethal in the name of her protection.

And the sick part?

I need this.

This reminder that she’s still breathing. Still whole. Still here.

That whatever nightmare she just walked through, she made it back to me.

But the scent only does so much.

Because I still saw the wreckage.

Still saw the filth he left behind.

Still saw what he wanted to do.

And it only makes me angrier.

“You’re coming home with me,” I finish, slow and razor-sharp. “End of fucking story.”

She stares at me, lips parted.

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