Chapter 3

Elowë's POV

I sat on the floor with my knees pulled up to my chest, arms wrapped tight around my shins. Naked. Confused. And completely fucking terrified.

My memory had a hole in it. A big one. I remembered planning the hike with Shera, remembered going to bed, and then... nothing. Just blank space where hours should have been. And now I was here, wherever "here" was, with nothing but my bare skin and a growing sense that something had gone very, very wrong.

My body was telling me things my mind couldn't remember. My knees were scraped raw, the skin broken and crusted with dried blood. My palms were the same—torn up like I'd been dragging myself across gravel. And my calves. God, my calves were killing me. That deep, burning ache that came from running too far, too fast. Like I'd just finished a marathon I didn't remember starting.

I ran. I must have run. But from what? And where was Shera?

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut. Something was wrong. Though I couldn’t remember why, panic surged every time I thought of Shera, as if my body remembered what my mind had lost. Shera was in trouble. She needed help. She needed me.

The door swung open without warning.

I jerked back, pressing myself against the wall, one arm flying up to cover my chest. A man stood in the doorway—mid-thirties maybe, wearing what looked like a server's uniform. Black pants, white shirt, that carefully neutral expression service workers wore when they were dealing with something unpleasant but routine.

He didn't even look at me. Just tossed something onto the floor between us. A bundle of black fabric that landed with a soft thump.

"Put that on," he said, already turning back toward the door. "I'll wait outside. Hurry up. Don't make me late for tonight's schedule."

"Wait—" I started, but he was already pulling the door shut. "Wait, what schedule? Where am I? How did I—"

The door clicked closed.

"Hurry up," came his muffled voice from the other side.

I stared at the closed door for a second, my heart hammering. Then I looked down at the bundle of fabric on the floor.

What the hell is that supposed to be?

I reached out and picked it up, the material slippery against my fingers. Lace. Black lace. I held it up and my stomach dropped.

It was lingerie. If you could even call it that. More like a few strategic scraps of fabric held together by thin straps. The "top" was two triangles of lace barely big enough to cover my nipples, connected by strings that would tie behind my neck and back. The bottom was worse—a tiny scrap of lace that would cover almost nothing, with strings meant to tie at my hips.

This is what he wants me to wear?

I looked around the room again, desperate. Maybe there was something else. A sheet on the bed, a towel in a bathroom, anything. But the bed was bare—just a mattress with no sheets or blankets. No bathroom. No closet. Just four walls, a door, and me sitting here naked holding what amounted to a few pieces of string and lace.

I crawled over to the door and knocked. "Excuse me? Is there... is there anything else? Something with more... I mean, do you have a shirt or—"

The door opened a crack. Not enough for him to see in, just enough to shove something through. Two more bundles of fabric hit the floor.

"That's all we've got," he said, sounding annoyed now. "Pick one and put it on. Now."

The door closed again before I could respond.

I picked up the other two options, hoping maybe one of them would be better. The first was somehow worse—just a few thin straps that looked like they were supposed to create some kind of harness across my body, leaving everything exposed. The second was marginally better. Still lace, still black, but at least it had slightly more fabric. The top had a bit more coverage—though "coverage" was a generous term—and the bottom was a thong instead of just strings.

I stared at the three options spread out on the floor in front of me.

This is insane. This is completely insane.

But what choice did I have? I couldn't stay naked. And I couldn't stay in this room forever. I needed to get out. Needed to figure out where I was. Needed to find Shera.

Okay. Okay. Just put it on. Get out there. Figure out what's happening.

I picked up the "best" option—if you could call it that—and turned my back to the door. My hands shook as I tied the strings at my hips and neck. The lace settled against my skin like it wasn't even there.

I looked down at myself and felt sick.

I'm basically naked. This doesn't cover anything.

But it was all I had.

I took a breath and opened the door.

The man was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His eyes flicked over me—a quick, assessing glance that made my skin crawl—but his expression didn't change. Like he'd seen this a thousand times before. Like there was nothing unusual about a girl standing in front of him wearing scraps of lace and nothing else.

I crossed my arms over my chest automatically, trying to cover myself, though it didn't help much.

He pushed off the wall and started walking. "Come on."

I followed, my bare feet silent on the cold floor. The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, doors lining both sides.

"Where am I?" I asked, my voice coming out smaller than I wanted. "How did I get here?"

He didn't answer. Just kept walking.

"Please, I need to know. My friend, she was with me. Is she here? Did someone bring her here too?"

Nothing. He turned a corner and I hurried to keep up, my heart starting to pound harder.

"I need to make a phone call. I need to—"

"Save it," he said without looking back.

We reached the end of the hallway. A door stood in front of us, and I could hear something on the other side. Music. Low and bass-heavy, the kind that vibrated through your chest. And voices. Lots of voices.

The man pushed the door open.

Sound and light hit me all at once. The music was louder here, pulsing through the air. The lighting was dim—red and purple spots that cast everything in shadow. And the smell. God, the smell. Alcohol and sweat and something sweet and cloying that might have been perfume or might have been something else.

I stepped through the doorway and my feet stopped moving.

This was a club. A big one. The space opened up in front of me, packed with people and furniture. Couches and chairs arranged in clusters, tables covered in bottles and glasses. And everywhere—everywhere—there were bodies.

A man slumped on a couch near the entrance, a bottle dangling from his hand, his head lolled back like he'd passed out mid-drink. On the couch next to him, a girl straddled another man's lap. She was wearing something similar to what I had on—maybe even less, if that was possible—and she was moving. Slowly. Deliberately. Rolling her hips to the beat of the music while his hands roamed over her body. Her ass, her thighs, sliding up under the lace to cup her breasts. Right there in the open where anyone could see.

And that was not the worst. Another girl, this one bent over the back of a chair while a man pressed against her from behind, his hands gripping her hips. She was making sounds—breathy, high-pitched sounds that mixed with the music.

And in the corner, deeper in the shadows—

Oh god.

A girl was on her back on a couch, her legs spread. A man was on top of her, his hand pushing aside the scrap of lace between her legs. I watched him thrust into her, watched her arch her back, heard the moan that came from her throat. Right there. In front of everyone. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

My feet were frozen to the floor. My brain couldn't process what I was seeing.

Is this a sex club?

The man—the server—turned around and saw me standing there. He walked back, his expression shifting from bored to irritated.

"Come on," he said. "Your client's waiting."

Client?

The word didn't make sense for a second. And then it did. And my stomach dropped through the floor.

"No," I said, taking a step back. "No, I'm not—I don't work here. You've made a mistake. I'm a student, I go to Saint-Lumière University, I don't—"

He rolled his eyes. Actually rolled his eyes, like he was bored of this conversation already. "I don't have time for this."

"I'm serious!" I grabbed his arm, desperation making me bold. "Listen to me. I need to make a phone call. I need to—"

He pulled his arm free and clapped his hands together. Twice. Sharp and loud.

I felt them before I saw them. Two presences, heavy and solid, moving up behind me. I turned.

Two men. Both huge. Broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of build that came from years in a gym or a lifetime of manual labor. They looked down at me with flat, expressionless eyes.

Oh fuck.