She hesitates for a fraction of a second before she places her cold, small hand in mine.
The private jet’sengines whine down from a scream to a sigh as we roll to a stop on the private airstrip. The windows are tinted, but I know the landscape outside without looking. Rural France. The air, when the cabin door hisses open smells of damp earth, distant manure and the crisp, clean scent of money and isolation.
Grace sits opposite me, a pale, silent statue strapped into a plush leather seat. Her hands are clasped in her lap, knuckles white. She hasn’t spoken a word since we left Portugal.
I rise, and she flinches. A tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but I see it. I always see it. It’s a little piece of music to me.
“We’re here,” I say, my voice flat, cutting through the hum of the systems.
I don’t offer a hand. She unbuckles herself and stands on unsteady legs, following me to the door like a condemned man ascending the gallows stairs.
The transition from the controlled, sterile air of the jet to the gusty, open field is abrupt. A black SUV, matte and menacing, idles a dozen paces away,flanked by four of my men. They are not the suited, discreet security of my castle. These are soldiers from my private cadre dressed in tactical gear, faces hard, eyes constantly scanning the tree line, the low-hanging grey clouds. Their assault rifles are not for show.
The drive is short and silent. Grace stares out the window, her breath fogging the glass. I know she sees the high fences cleverly disguised as overgrown hedgerows. I know she sees the occasional glint of a camera lens nestled in a birdhouse and I know she sees the men stationed at intervals, their postures rigid, their presence an obscenity against the bucolic backdrop.
Her trembling has returned, a fine vibration I can feel through the leather seat between us.
We pull up to the farmhouse. It’s a picture of rustic neglect; weathered shutters, a sagging roof, ivy choking the stone walls.
It’s a lie. A beautiful, mundane lie.
The security here is even thicker. Men emerge from the shadows of barns, their numbers all wrong for a working farm. There are no animals, no tractors. Only silence and the watchful, armed deadliness of the Brethren.
The car stops. My men exit first, securing the perimeter, their radios crackling with low, terse codes. I watch them move, a conductor watching his orchestra take their positions. This is the prelude.
I look at Grace. A thought, cold and practical, surfaces. I could leave her here. Lock her in this armoured car, have her stay behind and spare her the sight. Spare myself the potential for messy, emotional complications.
But then I reconsider. Fragility can be tempered, and I know fear can be a more effective teacher than kindness.
Perhaps she needs to see this. Perhaps she needs to understand the full weight of the world she has been pulled into, the absolute nature of my control. Seeing the consequences of defiance, of betrayal, might just be the final key to securing her obedience. It will shatter any lingering, foolish hopes she might cling to.
I lean back, the picture of repose, watching the farmhouse door like a king on a battlefield, waiting for the deed to be done and victory to be secured. Grace’sbreathing is shallow, quick. She is trying so hard to be quiet, to be still. I can feel her fear like a physical force, a cold emanation in the warm confines of the car.
The radio on the dash crackles. A voice, stripped of all inflection, says, “Clear. Targets secure. Proceed.”
The performance is over. The main act begins.
I open my door and step out. The air is cooler now as I walk around the car and pull open her door. She looks up at me, her eyes wide, pools of terrified green. I don’t speak. I simply reach in, my fingers closing around her slender wrist. Her pulse thunders against my grip like a frantic, captive bird. I pull her out, her body unwilling, stumbling slightly on the uneven gravel. She’s barefoot, and I know she can feel those sharp stones digging into the soles of her feet.
“Stay beside me,” I command, my voice low. “Do not speak. Do not stray. Look only where I tell you to look. Do you understand?”
She nods with a quick, jerky motion. Her wrist is clammy in my hand, but I don’t let go. I lead her like a falconer with a new, skittish bird towards the decaying farmhouse.
The exterior is a masterclass in deception. The door, however, is solid steel, reinforced, with a keypad and a retinal scanner. It clicks open with a heavy, hydraulic hiss. The transition is jarring, designed to disorient.
We step inside and the air changes.
It’s filtered and temperature-controlled, carrying the faint, clean scent of antiseptic and lemon polish. The rustic illusion is utterly obliterated.
We stand in a vast, gleaming atrium. The floor is polished concrete, warm from underfloor heating. The walls are stark white and lining the hall, on both sides, are cells. Not dungeons. Not cages. They are sleek, modern enclosures fronted from floor to ceiling with thick, flawless glass.
In each cell is a woman.
Some are curled on pristine white beds, staring at the wall. Some pace the limited space, their movements restless, haunted. One is tied to a bed with soft-looking restraints, her head lolling, sedated.
Another, heavily pregnant stands at the glass, her hands pressed against it. Her eyes are empty of everything but a profound, soul-crushing despair.
They are all beautiful.
