Author's note: Riddick's thoughts are italicized since this is Lysia's narrative.

Wonderlust: I fixed it!

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Monkeyshines: This is after The Chronicles of Riddick.

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Chapter 3

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R.B.R.

So this is where she lives. The woman with the smell sent from the gods. After seeing her in that bathroom and smelling her orgasm, I decided to find out more about her. It's a common thing when you're hunting someone, except I have no intention of killing her.

I arrived at her loft before her, following her scent to a deserted warehouse. The loft is the size of a small house with no extra walls, only support beams. There are two rows of broken counters at the side of the loft that's lit up by three windows and a paint splattered sink is situated in them. A chipped plate and cup sit in a tray on the counter and a rusty spoon, fork and knife are placed neatly under a fabric napkin next to them. The whole thing looks like it belongs in a gourmet restaurant, except for the fact that it's plain to see that the utensils have had more than their fair share of use.

There's two areas curtained off in the room. One is hiding a dented metal tub, which to my surprise has running water. Cold, but nonetheless, water. A torn rag that is not the same colour it was when it was bought, whenever that was, is draped over the side of the tub and a bar of soap that smells like dirt is on top of it. I purse my lips at the sight and let the curtain fall back over the tub.

The other curtain's secret is more surprising. Broken boards, crates, dirty tarps and a ceiling beam that broke free but is still connected to the wall, are behind the bed sheet curtain. Why bother to hide this stuff when her whole loft looks like a dump?

There's a big rug in front of her couch, and on closer inspection, it's hiding a few holes in the floor. I peel back the blanket on the couch and find holes where a rat chewed the stuffing. Her metal bed has the thinnest mattress I've ever seen. I lift it up and see that it's not an actual mattress. The girl put a flat board over the metal springs on the bed frame and cushioned it with one old quilt.

I've spent most of my life in prison, but even those places were better than this. Prisons may be shit holes, but at least they give you a mattress and a toilet. Is there even a toilet in here? I duck to look under the bed and find a bucket with a wooden toilet lid on it. Ugh.

All of this inspection does nothing to ebb my curiosity. Why does this woman live in such horrible conditions? Women on Behen weren't held in glory, but they weren't mistreated either. She deserves better than this. Any woman does.

Footsteps on the stairs. My hand automatically pulls out my rough stone dagger. I disappear into the darkest corner, the one furthest from the windows. No one can see me. Not even I can see until I take my goggles off.

The room becomes faint purple outlines. Purple means heat. A man walks into the room. Beer. Sweat. Dirt. Doesn't he ever take a bath? I might be a killer, but there is a fine line between being dirty and never cleaning yourself. Jesus. Of course, if I had that little woman in the tub with me, I might take a bath everyday.

I don't let myself get carried away with that imagery, but a few images slip by anyway. Wet bodies. My mouth on her breast. Soft gasps. I almost growl at myself, but I remember just in time that I'm trying to be invisible. This scraggly man has the same idea, but he doesn't go that far into the shadows. He doesn't have my surgical shine job. The pussy.

I smell her before I see her and instantly stiffen… everywhere. Damn it, I haven't been this hard in six years and I haven't had a woman in five. My animal side knows better than to take control of my mind when I don't want it to, but now it's not listening.

She comes over the ledge of the window next to the counters, climbing something. There's a crease between her eyes and I suddenly wish I can press my finger there and erase it. What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm turning into a fucking pussy over a woman. She stumbles into the loft and I actually have to stamp on my right foot to keep it from stepping towards her. I've never felt this possessive of a woman before, not even with little Jack.

Jack. Turned a killer because of me. I left her when she needed me. Don't know what gave her the idea I could help her. I'm not a fucking babysitter. It feels wrong to think that about Jack. I did care for her, but in my line of work, that's not enough. You look after yourself first. Always. And that's why she's dead now. I didn't save her in time because I was too busy looking after myself. I'm a self-centered bastard with her blood on my hands. Blood that didn't deserve to be mingled with the stink of my enemies. Too late now, idiot.

Life is precious. People are precious. Carolyn taught me that. I realized something when that thing carried her away to be eaten. Up until that fateful crash on that God-forsaken planet, people were just smells and calculations to me. Expendable flesh. I lived for the smell of their fear. Fear of me. Fear of death. Whatever worked. When I was around people, I surveyed the space we were in, calculated running distances to the exits, counted the weapons everyone had, put everyone on sides (my side or the enemy's) and even picked out ones that would make good decoys. It had never occurred to me that people had personalities that could be missed if lost. No one had ever cared whether I lived or died before Carolyn. Sure, I had inmates that helped me, but we were all expendable in the others eyes. Easily dealt with should any of us turn, and it did happen.

On that planet, I saw motherhood for the first time. Carolyn had cared for little Jack like the best of mothers. She would have died for the girl, but instead she died to save me. I wish she could have known how many nights I laid awake wishing that that horrible beast had carried me off instead of her. Maybe then Jack wouldn't have turned into a killer. Maybe she would've become a real lady and married someone who treated her right.

It's stupid of me to dwell on the past like this. I know better than anyone that you can't change what has already happened. It's not like I believe in destiny. Hell, no. What's happened has happened. The only thing you can change is the present. Carolyn also taught me that. Carolyn gave me a reason for life. Love. Granted, I've had little to none of it in my life, but before her, I thought I was incapable of the emotion. Yes, I had loved her once. It took me a few months to get over her, but now she always brings a sweet memory or two when I think of her. Now the only woman I can think of is the tiny one that's in front of me. She's about the size of Jack, but huskier. She knows hard labor, as well as hard times. Damn it, I don't even know her name.

She's crouched behind the counters, but I can see her from my hiding place. She's lined in purple and it's lighter where she's the hottest. Hmm, looks like she's as excited as I am. Her breasts and vagina are the lightest purple, so light it's almost white. I look down at my pants and my cock is the same colour. Go me.

The man kicks her, and as she goes flying, my killer side takes over. I can't understand anything he says because of my fury, but I know she doesn't answer him. She climbs up to the ceiling eaves that are laid out in squares made of wood and hang three feet from the actual ceiling. She's moving like a spider, with agility and grace, and occasional clumsiness. Okay, maybe she's more like a spider monkey. Half spider, half monkey. That sounds right.

She practically floats over to my dark corner. How can she see in this darkness? Maybe my eyes aren't as impressive as I thought. I almost allow myself a laugh before something drips onto my head. Good God, she's dripping feminine fluids on me. I can't resist and bring a finger up to wipe it up, then lick the drip off my finger. God, she smells heavenly and she tastes like the most exquisite wine. My cock twitches a few times from the taste. If I ever have this woman, and I have little doubt that I won't, I will eat her out until she falls unconscious. I'll never go thirsty with her around.

She growls at something, and I remember what I'm doing. What did that bastard say to her? I resist letting out my own growl. I don't want to scare her. She practically flies across the beams and jumps on the other man. Blood. Arousal. They fall on the floor and she slits his throat. I'm slightly disappointed that I didn't get to help kill the bastard, but the smell of her and the blood is making my head swim. I've never been on drugs, but I have a suspicion that this is what it feels like. All this ecstasy is making me become addicted to her smell. I can already feel it happening.

Perfect.

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The smell is gone by the time I wake up the next afternoon. I don't sleep at night anymore. It's when I'm the most vulnerable. Oddly enough, not only is the smell gone, so is the man's body that I'd stuffed into a trash bag before I went to sleep.

I gasp and jump off of my bed, grab two daggers and huddle into a corner. There's no one here. There's no one here. You would smell them, wouldn't you? I calm down enough to stand up, but I slip the daggers into the waistband of my faded pajama pants. I have to leave now. Someone has found my place.

"Hi Lysia! Nice pad you got here," someone says from the doorway. I grab the daggers so fast, I accidentally slice the waistband of my pajama bottoms and they fall to my ankles. I follow them to the floor. I somehow manage to kick out of my ruined pants and roll over in James Bond style to an animal crouch, holding the daggers out. Oh, it's only Justin.

"Geez, you need to chill," he says while walking in. He's carrying a bag of groceries, which he sets onto the nearest row of counters. Using the bit of dignity I have left, I grab a pair of jeans and pull them on. I can't stop myself from thinking about the smell of the man I killed last night while I'm putting my bra and a tank top on. It felt like I'd had the bottle of wine stolen when I'd only had a whiff of it. I sigh. He wasn't the kind of man I want, I remind myself. It's better this way.

I bite my lip in surrender. I wish I could smell him once more. I feel like I'm addicted to his smell and now I'll never smell it again. I pray I don't have withdrawals from not being able to smell him. God, his smell was so wonderful. It penetrated my brain like a head massage.

"You finished having sex thoughts?" Justin says impatiently.

I look over at him, coming out of my trance. "You like having ten fingers?"

"Quit talking smack and get over here. I made you breakfast."

I raise an eyebrow at him. He's never cared about me before. What's changed? And how the hell does he know where I live? I walk over to him with every intention of finding out, whether he wants to tell me or not.