Chapter 8 Yes. I consent

Elena's POV

Oh God, it was him again—was he the only masseur in this entire place?

"Ladies, please come in."

The casual familiarity in his tone made my skin crawl.

"Well, don't just stand there!" Mother's voice urged from behind me, sharp with impatience.

Her hand pressed against my lower back, propelling me forward.

The man turned to my mother, gesturing toward a doorway on the left. "Family members can wait in the lounge. We have refreshments available—tea, coffee, light snacks. The session should take about an hour."

An hour. Alone with him for an hour.

Mother patted my arm. "Go on, I'll be right outside."

She set a thermos on the reception desk. "Eat this when you're done. It's still warm."

The scent of apple pie caught in my throat. She always favored Sabrina, but she remembered I loved apple pie.

The small gesture twisted something in my chest—guilt, maybe, for doubting her judgment, for being so paranoid.

He led me down a corridor lined with closed doors, each one marked with a small brass number.

We stopped at room seven.

He opened the door and gestured for me to enter first.

I stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind me.

The lavender-scented air felt suddenly too thick, and through the wall I could hear the muffled sounds of the spa—distant conversation, soft ambient music—but in here, there was only silence and the faint hum of the hydrotherapy bed's circulation system.

The room was small.

The bed dominated the center, its surface rippling slightly with the water circulation underneath.

A small table held neatly folded towels and bottles of oil.

On the wall hung a framed certificate, the text too small and blurred to read properly from where I stood.

Yesterday I'd been too rattled.

But now, in the dim lighting, something felt off.

The lock on the door sat oddly high.

Even the fragrance in the air felt wrong—too sweet, almost cloying, making my thoughts drift.

A prickle of unease crept up my spine, but I pushed it down.

Mother wouldn't have brought me somewhere unsafe. Would she?

She was right outside.

He moved past me, checking the temperature controls on the bed's side panel.

His movements were efficient, clinical.

Just a masseur preparing for a session.

A cautious instinct made me pull out my phone.

While his back was turned, I opened the voice recorder app, tapped record, and slid it back into my pocket.

"Take off your top."

His tone was casual, matter-of-fact.

I grabbed the hem and tried to pull it up, but the fabric caught on my bandage.

Sharp pain shot through me and I froze, breath hissing through my teeth.

Heat pressed against my back—a solid chest close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck.

Large hands reached around, gripped the fabric, and carefully pulled it up and over my head in one smooth motion.

I spun around, arms crossing over my chest, heart pounding.

He stood there holding my shirt, his expression utterly calm.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He set the garment aside on a chair.

"You're injured. If you pull at it yourself, you'll tear the wound."

His gaze dropped to my pants, then back to my face.

"Your pants—are you taking them off, or should I help with those too?"

The question landed like a slap.

Every instinct screamed at me to grab my shirt and run.

But Mother's voice echoed in my head: Don't make a scene. Don't be dramatic. Sabrina would never act like this.

And beneath that: She was my mother. She wouldn't personally push me into danger, would she?

She was sitting right outside.

I was probably overthinking it again, letting paranoia override common sense.

The phone was recording.

If anything inappropriate happened, I'd have proof.

I stripped off my pants, set them carefully on the chair, and climbed onto the water bed in just my underwear.

The surface gave beneath me, warm and yielding.

I sank into it and heat enveloped my injured leg.

The bed's circulation system produced a barely audible flow, rhythmic and almost soothing.

"Relax."

His voice came from behind me, low and steady.

Cold liquid dripped onto my bare spine—oil.

Then his palms were there, warm and firm, spreading it across my back.

His thumbs dug into the knots along my shoulder blades, and despite everything, I felt my muscles begin to release.

He was good at this.

Actually good.

Professional.

Maybe I'd misjudged him.

His hands moved lower, working methodically down to my injured leg.

The chronic ache that had plagued me for weeks began to ease, real relief spreading through the damaged tissue for the first time since the accident.

The relief was so immediate, so profound, that I let myself sink deeper into the bed.

I turned my head to the side, eyes half-closed, my mind spinning through everything.

Too much pressure bearing down on me all at once.

I was so exhausted I was close to breaking, and ridiculous as it was, this was the only place I felt even slightly able to breathe.

This stranger with his capable hands was the only person not demanding something from me, not adding to the weight.

"Miss Elena?"

His voice pulled me back.

I blinked, realizing he'd stopped, his palms resting warm against my lower back.

"You seem very stressed."

There was something in his tone now—not quite professional anymore, something knowing.

"There's a treatment called Yoni massage. Ancient practice. Targets tension held in the pelvic region—stress, trauma, all the things women carry without realizing."

He paused.

"It's intimate, yes, but effective. Especially for someone in your... condition."

The word condition hung in the air between us.

Like he knew.

Like he could see exactly how close I was to shattering.

Warning bells rang somewhere in the back of my mind, but they were distant, muffled by exhaustion and the seductive promise of relief.

I should have said no.

Should have grabbed my clothes and left.

But my judgment was clouded by exhaustion, and my body was still warm and pliant from the legitimate massage he'd just given me.

Beneath the fog was something more desperate: the need to believe someone could actually help me, could take away even a fraction of what I was carrying.

The phone was still recording.

Whatever happened, there would be proof.

Mother was right outside, so... nothing could really happen, could it?

"Is it... legitimate?"

My voice came out smaller than I intended.

"Entirely."

His hand pressed more firmly against my lower back, warm and steady.

"But I need your consent. Explicit consent."

His voice dropped lower.

"Say yes, Elena, and I'll help you let go of everything you're carrying."

The way he said my name—not Miss Elena anymore, just Elena—sent a shiver down my spine.

Too familiar.

Too deliberate.

But I was so tired.

So fucking tired of carrying everything alone.

"Okay."

The word escaped before I could think it through.

"Yes. I consent."

"Good girl."

The words came almost before I'd finished speaking, and the knowing smile that spread across his face made my heart suddenly seize.

Too quick.

Too practiced.

Like he'd been waiting for exactly that response, like this whole careful buildup had been leading to this precise moment.

But his hands were already moving, fingers hooking into the waistband of my panties, peeling them down slowly, deliberately—