Instinct (Beneath The Blaze #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Lily

Song- The Search, NF.

They think I’m insane here. And honestly, I understand why.

“We tweaked the bergamot versus nutmeg ratio for this particular sample.” Chloe, the head perfumer, tells me.

Pulling my sleeves over my wrists, I close my eyes as she sprays it in front of me.

I inhale slowly, waiting for that feeling to wash over me.

Safety. But after a few seconds, and a good whiff, disappointment fills me again.

For the thirtieth time. An entire year of searching, and Christ knows how much money I’ve spent.

Which is probably why they’re looking at me like I need some sort of evaluation.

“Nope. Still not it.” I sigh.

Opening my eyes, I see the assistant give me a curt nod and a hollow smile. I rummage in my purse, pull out the tiny spray bottle I always carry, and hand it to her.

“This is the closest we’ve gotten in a year.

What else can we change? Maybe it’s a whole new ingredient we need?

” I try not to sound desperate, but since this idea lodged itself in my mind, I haven’t been able to shake it.

And it might stop me from randomly sniffing men in this search for my savior.

The man who stopped my mom’s husband from raping me five years ago.

The man I know nothing about, and didn’t even catch a glimpse of. All I have is a scent.

“Lily, are you sure you want to keep wasting money on this? I’m sure he will love the version you’ve created for him.”

My cheeks heat as she reminds me of my lie. I swallow hard.

“Yeah, I suppose. I just wanted it to be exactly as I remembered.”

Shit.

“Remembered?” she questions with one eyebrow raised.

Think. Shit.

“It was a scent back in Russia. It reminds me of home, and he is my home, you see.” I tell her.

And part of that is true. It does remind me of my home back in Russia, not here in Pennsylvania. That scent reminds me of being with my father back when I was a kid. The last time I truly felt safe. The last time I felt anyone was ever looking out for me.

So, I’m not lying entirely. I need this scent so I can finally feel safe in my own skin again.

She nods, pretending to listen, but her eyes say she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Can we just give it a few more goes? Maybe more vanilla in one, citrus in another?”

She scoffs, pushing her dark hair over her shoulder. I look down at all the purple bottles on the table. “You’re really not giving up on this, are you?”

I shake my head. I need this to work. At this point, it’s the only thing I can think of to stop the panic attacks from taking over. When my mind slips back to that night, when I feel that creep’s breath on my skin, the aftershave reminds me that I was saved.

“I can’t. I don’t give up on anything.” I say, making my point known.

It’s how my father raised me—never give up on anything. Some may say his techniques weren’t age-appropriate, like the time he gave me a gun when I was seven and taught me how to shoot. I remember crying and saying I didn’t want to learn, but he taught me survival anyway.

It was a time when, really, what I needed was love. Now I can see some of the benefits; it’s what has stopped the anxiety from completely taking over my life. I remember how fierce he taught me to be—even on days when it’s really hard. I can’t give up on myself.

Chloe takes a slow breath and glances at her colleague. “Give us a couple more weeks. Let me see what we can come up with. I’ll give you a call when we have more options available.”

“Thank you.”

My heart pounds as she places my cologne down. “Oh, can I have that back?”

“Sorry! Yes!”

She picks it up, and I snatch it out of her fingers, holding it tight like a lifeline.

That night, I was blindfolded. I heard everything that happened to me. I felt every second of it. But that scent. That smell. The man who saved me sticks in my head the most.

He didn’t speak. He moved with lethal precision, untying me without a word, keeping the blindfold on my eyes like he was protecting me from something even worse.

I remember the pounding of his heart against his hard chest, his biceps tightening as he held me. My nose pressed to the base of his neck as he carried me out of hell and placed me on my own doorstep.

The man without a name. Without a face.

All I have is his smell.

A masculine, woody scent with a soft floral edge. One that vanished the moment he did. I haven’t smelled it once since that night five years ago, except in the bottle I clutched in my hand—the one we managed to recreate, even though it wasn’t exactly right.

Now, every time I feel unsafe, when the world caves in around me, I spray it on my wrist, and it protects me. It soothes me. It calms me.

It reminds me that someone once chose to save me.

I might never find him. But the memory of him keeps me from drowning. I can still feel his strong arms carrying me out. He could have been another one of the bad guys, but I knew the second his hand touched my arm, he wasn’t. He was there to rescue me.

My hand trembles, so I tuck it beneath my cardigan and slip the cologne back into my purse.

“Smoke.” I blurt out. “It needs smoky hints.”

“Okay. We can work on that.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, clinging to the hope that if I find that scent, I might finally be okay again.

That I will have a solution to stop the panic attacks before they grip hold of me.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but if I feel safe, or trick my brain into believing it’s safe, I might not be so on edge every minute of the day.

Like my body is constantly in fight mode.

By the time I climb back into my Mercedes, my phone is already ringing, and I see the ten missed calls.

The first place my brain goes is death. That all these missed calls mean my father's life has caught up with him. I can already feel the tightness pulling at my throat, even as I try to rub my skin to make it stop. I unlock my phone, and my heart rate calms once it fully sinks in that they are just calls from my assistant, Roxy. She’s a tad overdramatic at times in her communication.

“Hi,” I say, sheepishly. Even if I own my art gallery, running off to secret appointments to recreate the scent of a stranger probably isn’t the best look.

“Umm. Lily... where the hell are you?” she snaps.

Some people might not let their assistant get away with talking to them like this, but this is exactly how I’ve trained Roxy to be. I need her strong, even with me. Because she is someone else who will drag me out of bed on the hard days. That will keep me distracted.

“Getting coffee. And running some quick errands. I’m on my way back now.” I tell her, tapping my nails on the steering wheel.

“You know that’s my job?” she sasses.

“Personal things. I had an appointment.”

“Are you okay?” She asks with concern.

She knows I struggle sometimes; she actually saw straight through me pretty quickly. She doesn’t need to say a word about it, but it's nice knowing someone is there if I do need them. Who will make sure I can take a minute when the world gets too loud.

“Yeah, all good. I promise. Now what’s the emergency?”

I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and start the engine.

“Claude is asking if we can alter the placement of Grande Psychosis.”

I roll my eyes. Claude is a bit of a diva, but he does have talent. “Again? What’s wrong with the entire left wall? That piece is powerful. It needs its space, a time to shine.”

Maybe it speaks to me because it mirrors the parts of me I don’t show. Dark canvas. Silver lines that reveal their truth only if someone looks close enough.

My gallery is built on sensation. On immersion. Black walls. Art that demands the room. Not the people. Not the noise. The work carries the light.

I know better than anyone how senses can break a person. So I built a place where they can heal instead.

Dancing was once my chosen form of art, but now I offer a stage for others to shine. I lost my own spark, and I’m at peace with that.

I’m only haunted by the scars that man left me with. My mom’s sick and twisted husband. Who thought that because he was married to my mother, I became his property too. Not only did he break me, but he did it in my safe place. My sanctuary. The ballet.

Those scars are the ones that hurt, yet not a single soul can see them except me.

“Well, he’s on his way here in twenty minutes, so get your ass back and explain that to him.”

I sigh and merge onto the highway. “I’ll grab him a coffee too.”

As soon as the call ends, I put on my playlist and turn the volume up as loud as it will go, hoping that it will drown out the noise in my mind.