Vivienne didn't sleep.
Not because she couldn't.
Because she didn't want to.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Carmen's mouth against hers. Not the kiss—the weight of it. The hunger. Like being kissed by the blade of a guillotine right before it drops.
By morning, her lips still tingled.
By nightfall, she went looking for her.
She didn't need directions. Desire has a way of guiding lost things.
She found Carmen in a warehouse near the docks—concrete walls, rusted chains, windows so high the moon couldn't reach them.
Julian was already there.
Vivienne froze.
His presence was different. Sharp where Carmen was fluid. Still, but wrong. Like something in him had been left in the fire too long.
He looked at her like a craftsman looks at raw material.
"You came," he said, voice smooth as silk soaked in blood.
Carmen stepped out of the dark.
Vivienne's knees nearly buckled.
Not from fear.
From heat. From the realization she had crossed some invisible threshold—and she couldn't turn back.
"You wanted to understand," Carmen said. "This is understanding."
Vivienne's voice cracked. "What are you going to do?"
Julian smiled. "Nothing you haven't already fantasized about."
They tied her down—not with force, but ritual. Silk ropes, firm hands. A table chilled by night air. She could've screamed, but she didn't. She watched Carmen move like music and steel—deliberate, graceful, terrifying.
Julian whispered into her ear, "You can still leave."
Vivienne shook her head.
Carmen lifted a scalpel.
There was no speech. No ceremony.
Only the first cut.
A shallow slice across her thigh. Not cruel. Not casual either. A test.
Vivienne gasped. Not from pain—from clarity.
Julian held her jaw gently. "Don't close your eyes. You'll miss it."
The next cut was deeper.
Blood bloomed like a secret too long kept. Carmen didn't look away. Neither did Vivienne. Her breath came in ragged pulls. Her heartbeat pounded against the ropes.
She wasn't afraid.
She was alive.
Julian kissed her neck, his lips barely touching. "Pain is just memory leaving the body."
Carmen leaned in, her hands slick, her eyes soft. "You wanted to be close to the truth."
"I did," Vivienne whispered, tears mixing with sweat.
"This is the truth."
Vivienne started crying. Not from hurt. From something deeper—grief, lust, release. All the things she'd buried beneath ambition and ink.
Carmen wiped her tears with blood-stained fingers and kissed her.
Hard. Honest. Like communion.
And when it was over—when the ropes came off and Vivienne curled into Carmen's lap, trembling and blood-warm—Julian just stood there, watching them like a painter admiring his canvas.
"She didn't break," he said.
Carmen stroked Vivienne's hair. "Not yet."
Vivienne lifted her head. Bruised lips. Glazed eyes.
And smiled.
"Do it again."