Page 119 of Barbi and the Villain

So why is it that I am actually complying and removing my underwear?

God, I am even pettier than I realized if I’m willing to go this far.

19

As she collects the underwear, she tags each one of them with a number. Mine is number six.

“You will remain here until I shall return.” And with that, she’s out the door.

I am still dumbfounded. The other girls, however, are not.

They giggle around as they make bets on who’s going to be voted out. Apparently, this round three girls will be eliminated.

When Greta returns, she is carrying a bag full of numbered underwear—the men’s.

“You have ten minutes to deliberate which men you will vote out,” she instructs.

“What? How?” I blurt out.

“By smelling these, of course. It is a scent test. You must decide which ones are the most appealing.”

I stare at her, flabbergasted. Did she just say that we must smell the men’s underwear?

Ewwww.

Greta leaves the room and we are all left alone with the men’s pairs of underwear. The other girls, however, don’t seem in the least put out as they go, one by one, and they start sniffing the underwear.

“This one has a pleasant musk,” one notes, inhaling deeply. She behaves almost like my dog, and that is concerning.

More girls come forward to smell the piece.

They do the same with the others, complimenting some while placing others aside. Yet it’s all very personal, so it comes down to a majority vote. What is pleasant to one, may not be pleasant to the other. If a pair is not chosen by three or more girls, it is set aside.

“This one has no smell at all,” Loraine frowns. “Do you sense anything?” she asks her friend, who shakes her head.

“Barbara, you have not smelled any,” one of the girls calls out.

My lips tremble as I stare at the underwear in her hands.

“I don’t have the same olfactory senses as you do,” I say as an excuse. “I’m human.”

“Human? But how so? We all saw you heal from those cuts.”

“Well, it’s complicated. But I cannot tell one smell from the other, so whatever you guys choose, I’ll go along,” I mention.

They don’t seem to mind. But as they continue to classify each pair, I can’t help but wonder which one is Nykander’s and what that would smell like. My lips draw into a tight line. A hole forms in my stomach as I regard the other girls sniff away at the underwear, somehow uncomfortable with the thought that they must be smelling him.

You’re not supposed to care, Barbi! Get a grip.

Yet it’s easier said than done. Even though weeks have passed—enough for me to get over the incident—I haven’t managed to forget him. And that is the most infuriating thing.

It’s the bond. It must be the bond. Because who’s sadistic enough to drool after an entitled asshole? Not me! Well, technically not me. I would not normally do that. But I will accede that this time there might be extenuating circumstances and I might be drooling over him.

Ugh! Goddamn it, Barbi! You’re the worst, you know that? You’re like those doormat heroines you hate to love in romance novels who swoon at the very sight of a tall, dark, and handsome hero.

My nose wrinkles in disgust at myself.

It’s the bond. It must be the bond.

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