Chapter 7 #2
Of course. Because whatever happens next needs to happen where no one can hear you scream.
The lights below change. Not a town anymore. Something else.
A building. No, buildings. Multiple structures connected by covered walkways, all lit from within. Modern architecture mixed with rustic timber. Floor-to-ceiling windows glowing warm against the snow. A circular driveway. Landscaping that probably costs more than my entire education.
The Cheyenne Club.
It looks like a luxury ski resort. Like somewhere you'd take a romantic weekend with someone you're trying to impress. Not like—whatever this is.
The helicopter descends. My stomach rises into my throat. We're dropping fast, the building getting bigger, closer, and then we're hovering over a helipad marked with a giant illuminated X.
The skids touch down. Gentle. Barely a bump.
The rotors begin to slow.
I can't move.
Unbuckle your seatbelt, Scarletta. This is what you signed up for. This is—
The door opens.
Cold air rushes in. A man in a dark suit stands in the opening, one hand extended toward me. White gloves. Perfect posture. He's probably fifty, graying at the temples, with the kind of face that doesn't smile but doesn't need to.
"Miss," he says. His voice is loud, but smooth. Professional. Like this is completely normal. "Welcome to the Cheyenne Club. I'm Mr. Fitzwilliam. If you'll allow me."
I stare at his hand.
He doesn't lower it.
My fingers fumble with the seatbelt. Four-point harness. Release. Click. Click. Click. Click.
I take his hand.
His grip is firm as he helps me stand, guides me toward the door. The wind hits immediately—freezing, sharp, stealing my breath. My shoes touch the helipad. Solid ground. I'm shaking.
Mr. Fitzwilliam's hand moves to my elbow. Not aggressive. Just—controlled. The way you'd guide a child who might bolt.
"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.
He pulls my leggings down. I'm not wearing underwear because I haven't done laundry in three weeks and I ran out and—
Jesus Christ, Scarletta. You're standing in front of three strange men and you're not wearing underwear.
The leggings pool at my ankles. Someone lifts my left foot. Then my right. The fabric disappears.
I'm naked except for my bra. Sports bra. Gray. The elastic is shot. One of the straps is held together with a safety pin.
The tall one reaches around my back. Finds the clasp.
"I really don't think—"
Shush.
The bra falls away.
I'm completely naked.
I should cover myself. Cross my arms over my breasts. Put my hands between my legs. But I'm frozen. Paralyzed. Three men are looking at me and I can't move and I can't breathe and—
Hands touch my elbow. Guiding me. Not forcing. Just—moving me.
There's a tub. I didn't see it before. How did I not see it before?
It's massive. Freestanding. Oval. Carved from a single piece of white marble that looks like it was stolen from a Roman bathhouse. Steam rises from the surface.
They guide me to the edge. I step up onto a small platform. The tall one takes my hand. Steadying me.
I lower one foot into the water.
It's perfect.
Not too hot. Exactly right. The kind of temperature that makes your muscles unclench before you realize they were clenched.
I sink lower. The water rises around my calves, my thighs, my hips. Someone's hand stays on my elbow until I'm sitting, submerged to my shoulders.
The heat hits me everywhere at once. My skin flushes. My heartbeat slows.
When was the last time you took a bath? When was the last time you—
Hands touch my hair. Gentle fingers working through the tangled mess. I haven't brushed it in—
Don't think about that. Don't think about how disgusting you are.
Water pours over my head. Warm. Someone's using a pitcher or a cup, rinsing my hair, smoothing it back from my face.
Something floral-scented. Shampoo. Expensive shampoo that doesn't smell like synthetic fruit. Hands massage my scalp. Working the lather through. Fingers finding every knot, every tangle, patiently working them loose.
I close my eyes.
This is insane. You're insane. Three strange men are washing your hair and you're just—sitting here. Letting them.
More water. Rinsing. The shampoo swirls away.
Then conditioner. Thicker. Silkier. They work it through the ends of my hair, patient with every snarl.
A hand appears in front of my face holding a white washcloth. Soft. Probably Egyptian cotton or some shit I can't afford.
The blonde one kneels beside the tub. He dips the cloth in the water, adds something from a bottle—body wash that smells like jasmine and something darker, richer—and begins washing my arm.
Long strokes. Methodical. He lifts my wrist, turns my hand over, washes my palm, between my fingers.
The one behind me washes my back. Shoulders. Spine. The small of my back.
The third one washes my other arm.
They don't speak. Don't explain. Just clean me.
The washcloth moves to my collarbone. My throat. Down between my breasts.
I should say something. Stop this. But my mouth won't work.
The cloth slides lower. Over my ribs. My stomach. The soft flesh I hide under oversized hoodies.
Lower.