Romans & histoires Perfume Of The Murderer

Her voice was soft, but it only fed the anxiety. Although her back was all I could see, I could sense that a wry smile was still on her lips. After a minute or two of the endless torture, we arrived at her office. Opening the door, the perfume that pervaded the air dashed into my nostrils, attacking my stomach. My eyes widened. I recognized the owner of the perfume—the harsh vanilla that had a peppery undertone. She was the type to spray the perfume excessively that it seemed it was less than smelling nice, and more about trying to asphyxiate herself and everyone around her.

The moment I stepped foot in my room, I was hit with the scent of his perfume, and I shivered in fear as I realized that it was not the same scent as Felix. I may be just a designer, but it’s always been my hobby to explore and get the different tastes and scents of many things. Felix perfume is a designer's perfume while this other one is a cheap replica. I’m guessing their shoes and jeans are just slightly alone too, it could be that he is trying to imitate Felix and have the same thing he has. Or maybe my mind is just trying to mess with me. Maybe my mind is coming up with this explanation so I don’t get to hate Felix for putting me through something like this.

"Alright, you may leave now.' I siad as my palms began to swaet and my heart began to pound inside my chest. I had spent the whole night plotting my revenge, thinking of different method of keeping him totally away from me. I couldn't think of any possible way, none of them seemed satisfying enough. Death wasn't an option at all as I am not a murderer and I can never want to try that. That was the last thing I could do, he is the heir of the Silver pack and of course if he suddenly die they would certainly investigate it and I wondered what would happen when they find out it was me who killed him. That thought was even scary, horrible and terrifying. I can't envisage me killing some one with

Maybe I'm experiencing Paranoia, or perhaps a trauma response to the city itself. My thoughts take a backseat when something, or rather someone grabs me, a hand over my mouth and the other on my stomach, hauling me to them. It takes a second for me to react but I do, kicking and screaming against the hand that holds my mouth. It's rough, strong, familiar. My nose catches a whiff of Clive Christian's No. 1 perfume laced with unmistakable peppermint. The scent making me gag like it always has.

No matter what happens to me, I don't care anymore; that's all I need to do in my life before I disappear. I grabbed on to their hands tighter as I heard the doors swing open. The smell that came in from the door was sickening. It seems like a mixed perfume is wafting along with the smell of something burning. It was sweet, fruity, earthy, and a bit musty; it was disgusting.

The scent of her hit me like a slap: jasmine laced with terror, the same perfume she’d weaponized to mimic Clara’s allure. I paused in the doorway, letting the silence stretch, then pursed my lips and whistled—a low, mocking trill, the tune of an old pack lullaby twisted into something sinister. It echoed off the vaulted ceilings, bouncing like footsteps in a grave. Her head jerked toward the sound, body coiling tight against her bonds, a whimper escaping despite her pride.

Her perfume was cloying, and it smelt like rot. I exhaled slowly, then reached for the whiskey again and drained it. "Are you done?" She blinked. "Because I've had more than enough of this performance," I added. "You really think this is a performance?" she hissed. "I sent that recording to Kasmine already," she said. My blood went still. She saw it. That split second where everything inside me went still. And she leaned in like a fucking predator. She tilted her head like a fucking villainess out of a slow-burn drama who just drew blood. "Just to shake her up a bit, and I am certain as hell it did."

I raid every shelf in my apothecary, smashing glass, spilling powders, my hands flying with precision. I grind the ingredients, mix them with my own blood—just a drop. Just enough to bind. Steam rises. The scent is wrong. It’s too sweet. I adjust the temperature, stir counterclockwise. Again. Then… The air shifts. The vapor coils like a phantom, scentless at first… then sharp. Bitter. Elusive. A mimic of the perfume. A curse stitched into perfume’s scent. This is no longer a potion. It’s a trap. A hallucination that smells like his mother’s death. Like abandonment. Like the night the king left him to rot.

I was halfway down the shadowed aisle, fingers brushing the iron-latticed gate, when the air shifted. A wave of cloying perfume hit first—jasmine and venom, sharp enough to cut through the lingering pine-smoke that still clung to my skin like a second claim. Then the voice, silky and poisoned. “Well, well. If it isn’t the little Vale whore who thinks she can play sovereign after getting knotted like a common bitch all night.”

"Of being safe. A long time ago. Before everything went wrong." More silence. I heard him shift. The mechanical whir again. "What perfume was it?" His voice was softer now. Almost gentle. It threw me off. "I don't know the name. I never knew perfume names. But it smelled like... like roses and something else. Something warm." "Jasmine." "Maybe. I don't..." "It was jasmine." He wasn't asking. He was telling me. "Roses and jasmine. From a French brand. Very expensive. Very rare."