Since I don't have Bruce here, girl, I owe you the truth, and I swear I'm not lying: even with Evangelina completely in love with him... he desires me. It's incomprehensible to my soul. She watches me leave the bedroom and head into the apartment's home office, where the detective has his laptop and two chairs set side by side, almost touching. I let him go in first, then turn to her and say:
"Come with us. You're the smartest person in the world, right? You can help. Besides, if I'm in there alone with him..."
Evangelina has just stepped out of the shower, wearing nothing but a long t-shirt that reveals almost the entire side of her breasts. Her crystal-clear eyes lock onto mine as she replies:
"Hey, gorgeous. I know he wants to be alone with you, so what am I supposed to do? I actually feel more jealous of you—I like you way too much. Bruce is like that, and so am I. I bet that after he has you in there, he'll come looking for me, completely turned on. We'll always have each other, you know. I just don't want him to leave. You already know my life has been his since I was a little girl. I can't help it, and I don't think that's ever going to change."
I keep insisting:
"Come on… just come."
She thinks for a few seconds and then promises:
"Give me half an hour, and I'll knock on the door."
I go into the office. The detective has the files on Isabel Fonzi and her ex-husband open.
For fifteen minutes, he goes through the most important points of her case: the attempted murders, the sabotage of her yacht. Everything points to revenge from that evil man, but there isn't a single piece of solid evidence. Bruce cares deeply about that woman, which I find incredibly tender; he's involved because he considers her a friend—one who has already suffered too much.
Out of the corner of my eye, I look at the detective's neck… there should be a chapter in some sacred book about the strange perfection of his muscles, the way they rise until they end in the charming dimples on his face. That alone is enough to make him one of the most handsome men I've ever seen; everything else is just a bonus.
When I lean closer to look at the photos of how he found Isabel in the hands of a human trafficking ring after she survived the sinking of her yacht, I start to cry. The woman was in terrible condition, in the hands of those vile men who had no idea who she really was. She had simply washed up on the beach, and because she was beautiful, they used her to lure disgusting tourists who, for just a few dollars, could sleep with a stunning woman.
Bruce places his hand on my thigh and strokes it gently, saying:
"Don't cry, Carmilla. Those days are over."
But the images are so disturbing, surpassed only by the ones showing those criminals with their heads smashed in being taken away in an ambulance. My detective, overwhelmed by such injustice, had beaten them so badly they barely looked human anymore.
I ask him to skip those images, and he does, bringing up others that show a scientific report on the amount of poison found in a strawberry cake—Isabel's favorite. Someone had tried to kill her again just two months ago, and they clearly knew her tastes very well. Bruce says:
"Keep reading. I'll go get us two glasses of wine."
I'm not stupid enough to miss the folder on his laptop labeled "Eva-Carmilla," nor naive enough to think it's there by accident; he wants me to see it. When I open it, I'm stunned: they're photos of drawings Bruce made of us. The first one is breathtaking. He's drawn me naked, lying on the rug. I'm asleep, on my side; my small breasts are rendered with exquisite detail, and my face is illuminated by the soft light coming through a window.
Bruce comes back with a bottle and two glasses. He smiles when he sees me amazed by his drawings and says:
"They're not exact, just memories from my photographic mind. I can make these with a pencil in five minutes. It's nothing truly artistic; there are just moments I don't want to forget."
I compliment him on such talent. They're beautiful. There's one of Evangelina: she's just a girl, sitting on a bed, reading a book. He captured her beauty, but also a sadness that makes me shiver. He explains:
"She was sixteen, I think, and she had just found out I was leaving. No—actually, I'm lying. She guessed it. She's so smart she simply knew I was about to go. Isn't she beautiful?"
I look him in the eyes and, almost annoyed, ask:
"Why are you wasting your time with me? How is it possible that you don't love her?"
He seems confused by the question and replies:
"Of course I love her! She and I were born for each other—but then you arrived. Don't you know who you are? Evangelina loves you, Killian, Lucius… everyone who meets you ends up the same way. I'm no different. I'm not lying, gorgeous—you drive me insane."
I smile, blushing. There's a drawing of my back, my scars detailed carefully; next to it, he wrote: "Everything about her is perfect."
I take a sip of wine. The clock on the wall tells me it's time for Evangelina to come in and rescue me from the desire I feel to kiss her cousin.
I tell him we should get back to work, that I've just had an idea. One of Isabel's photographs strikes me as particularly strange: it's from her wedding night with the man who is now the main suspect in the attempts on her life—but there's something about the dress.
The party is lavish, imposing, worthy of billionaires—but her dress is far too simple. It doesn't fit. She's wearing gold bracelets, rings, earrings, and a diamond choker. She's not the kind of woman who would overlook the fact that the dress for the most important night of her life looks almost cheap, clashing with her opulent style. I ask Bruce:
"Why did she marry him if she didn't love him?"
The detective replies:
"No, she always told me she loved him—until years later, when she found out he only wanted her money."
Without hesitation, I explain my theory:
"It's just a hunch, but I think your friend Isabel lied. That dress is her way of saying 'I despise you, I despise this wedding, and I despise marrying you.' You can also see it in their body language. Look closely at this other photo: the man is looking at her with joy, and she's turned away, with an expression that's almost irritation. Isabel is hiding something. Look deeper into that. I don't know—I don't believe she married him in love."
He seems doubtful, but right then Evangelina walks in, and I say:
"Perfect timing. I need your opinion. What do you see here?"
She asks:
"Let me sit—I can't see the screen well from here."
As if they were perfectly coordinated, I realize I've fallen into a trap. The moment I stand up, Bruce grabs me by the waist and pulls me onto his lap. Evangelina's hand presses high on my thigh as she settles into the chair. I'm trapped between the cousins.
I say nothing. I just look at the screen with them. One of Bruce's hands slowly moves under my t-shirt and rests at the side, at the base of my breast. Evangelina squeezes my thigh firmly, and I can't help it—I like it. It excites me that they've coordinated without saying a word; it turns me on to be desired by both of them.
Clumsily, I pull up another image and say:
"Do you see it too? Look—she's not smiling. He's fascinated by Isabel, but she… nothing."
I say "clumsily" because, without meaning to, I shift back against Bruce while pointing at the screen, dragging his hand directly over my breast. Evangelina confirms my thought:
"She clearly despises him."
Then she lifts my shirt, her eyes lighting up with pleasure as she sees him touching me. She grows aroused, moves up my leg, and begins to touch me. She isn't gentle. He stays still, but Evangelina's fingers move with a frenzy that forces my legs apart. She's determined to enter me, and I grow desperate—I want it, I crave it. I move my underwear aside to give her permission, but his hand gets there first, and now… he has me.
She undresses, begins kissing the inside of my thighs, looking into my eyes as she moves upward. I think, stop, stop, don't do this to me—but my body responds, moving back and forth against Bruce, feeling his hardness against me. I pull his hand away and stand abruptly. I look at them—they're so beautiful… I know I should leave, but I can't lie to myself. For the first time, the new Carmilla takes control, and I undress for both of them. It's too late—my mind is gone.
He kisses his cousin as he undresses. She lies back on the desk, legs open, calling me. Bruce lifts me effortlessly and places me beside her. She bites my lips, and he thrusts into me so forcefully that I cry out, unable to stop myself, as if I want the whole world to hear.
It's the first time he makes love to me. He's relentless, unstoppable. Evangelina wants him too, desperate to feel him inside her, writhing as she kisses me and whispers, "Me too—I want you inside me." But I can't let him go; I dig my nails into him and beg him not to stop. She smiles with pleasure and whispers:
"Isn't he the most beautiful man in the world? Now do you understand?"
I nod, and he goes faster. I feel no guilt, no remorse—only pleasure. They've known each other in bed for a decade; they understand each other without words. With a glance, they leave me trembling… then stand side by side, looking at me. Bruce whispers something in her ear, and she smiles, sensual and radiant. I feel ecstatic, afraid in a way I enjoy, like I'm prey for two gods of desire. Almost in unison, they say:
"You will never forget what we're about to do to you. Oh, Carmilla… come."
They both extend their hands toward me. Hypnotized by the scent of their naked bodies… I walk toward them, like a gazelle heading straight into the claws of two ravenous lions.