"This way, please."
He walks. I follow because his hand on my elbow gives me no other choice.
The helipad connects to a covered walkway. Glass walls on both sides. Heated. The transition from freezing wind to warm air makes my skin prickle.
Through the glass I can see the main building. Massive timber beams. Stone. Windows that show glimpses of leather furniture and fireplaces and?—
"The preparation suite is just ahead," Mr. Fitzwilliam says.
Preparation suite?
We turn left. Another hallway. Smaller. More private. He opens a door and guides me inside.
The room is?—
It's not what I expected.
Soft lighting. Cream walls. A massage table in the center draped in white linens. Cabinets along one wall. A vanity with a lit mirror. Silk robe hanging on a hook. Everything smells like eucalyptus and something else I can't identify. Something expensive.
Three men appear from a door I didn't notice. Young. Maybe late twenties. They're all wearing white linen—pants, button-down shirts that look soft and expensive. No shoes. They move like dancers. Graceful and synchronized.
They smile at me.
Not predatory smiles. Gentle ones. Like I'm a nervous animal they need to calm.
Mr. Fitzwilliam's hand leaves my elbow. "Enjoy the next four hours, Miss. You're in excellent hands."
Then he's gone. The door closes with a soft click.
I'm alone with three strange men in a room.
Four hours? What the fuck happens in here for four hours?
"So," I say, my voice too loud in the quiet space. "This is where you harvest my organs, right? I mean, statistically, I'm worth more in parts than?—"
The tallest one—dark hair, warm brown eyes—puts a finger to his lips. Gentle. Shushing me like you'd quiet a crying baby. He's not smiling anymore but his eyes are kind.
They move closer as a trio. Surrounding me in a triangle formation.
"Wait, I?—"
Hands touch my shoulders. Not grabbing. Just—there. The tall one in front of me. His fingers find the zipper of my hoodie. He pulls the zipper down.
"I can—I can do that myself?—"
Another soft shush. This one from behind me. A different voice. Lower.
The hoodie slides off my shoulders. Someone takes it from me. Folds it. Sets it on a chair like it's not a ratty piece of garbage I've been living in for days.
The one with blonde hair kneels. His hands find the waistband of my leggings.
Oh god.
"Wait—"
He looks up at me. Blue eyes. Still gentle. Still kind.
He doesn't wait.
