The gallery swirled around you like a waking dream, paintings stretching in a spiral, their subjects so lifelike you could almost hear them whisper as you moved. Your fingers glided over the frames, bold, too bold, tracing the cracked gold leaf and aged wood. A shiver chased your spine. If you lacked a core, you might believe those painted eyes followed your every step, like watchful phantoms.

And Dorian Gray—he watched, too. His eyes burned with that peculiar hunger, a man who had tasted every sin, indulged every vice, and yet still craved the unknown. You, fresh and strange, useful to Sir Malcolm, had caught his interest. Were you truly untouched? He didn’t know—but he intended to find out.

As you reached for the cologne displayed beneath glass, Dorian’s footsteps closed in. His voice, rich and smooth, spilled over your shoulder like velvet.

“Jasmine, night-blooming; lilac, seductive,… Each a bouquet of wicked pleasures. Flowers that hide their thorns. The secret, of course, lies in the blend.” His breath lingered, soft and heady, as he leaned in closer. "A good cologne doesn't just scent the skin. It ensnares the soul."

You glanced at him over your shoulder, a flicker of something unreadable in your eyes, then turned back to the display. Selecting a sleek, dark bottle, you lifted it—but before you could examine it further, his hand covered yours. Slowly, deliberately, he uncapped the vial and held it under your nose.

“Breathe,” he murmured, lips curving into a brief, knowing smile.

You leaned in, and as the fragrance swirled between you, his gaze lingered on your face, unhurried and deliberate.

“Does it suit you?” he asked softly, his voice low and inviting. For a second, the fragrance hovered between you—intimate, laced with jasmine and a subtle danger. His gaze lingered on you, intense, and you felt the weight of his question unspoken: Would you be still? Or move closer?