Page 33 of Savage Beauty

“They had records of people needing organs. I selected the best candidates from those I had tested. Two people. I selected two healthy people for organ harvesting.” I squeeze my eyelids as tightly shut as they will go. “From a practical viewpoint, I can understand organ sourcing from those in society who are poorest. Especially if their families are compensated. If you take the emotion out of it, when we have displaced human beings who are struggling, it’s a solution for all sides. But it’s wrong. No matter how much I want the option, it’s wrong. But I comprehend all the sides. Sage has already had one organ transplant. It’s not unusual for a second transplant to be needed, especially since she had one so young, and she won’t be top of the list. She’s already had one. Worldwide, there’s a massive organ shortage. And there are others who are simply denied organ transplants by hospitals that don’t want to take the risk. And if you have money and you can save someone you love…” A dizziness hits me, and I have to breathe and put a hand to my chest. The movement is what I call pulling-a-Sage. “I could’ve refused. I did it willingly. And then those people…they were gone. Selected by me. And I kept looking at the others.” Not really looking, hearing. Listening to them beg to leave. Cry. “I didn’t refuse to do the work. Not at first. I selected two people to die.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” I expect Max to look at me the way Mom did after I was sent to the principal’s office for screaming at the girl beside me in class when she wouldn’t shut up so I could hear the teacher. I had been right. But also wrong. Hence the serious, disappointed look. I know better, and therefore I should be better.

But the lines around Max’s eyes are soft, as is his forehead. His jaw is relaxed, and his lips aren’t pressed together like he’s holding something in. There’s no judgment. His hand remains on my knee, warm and comforting.

“My reason for telling you all of this is to show you Origins can’t be involved. There was no research going on in that compound. What they were doing in that place wasn’t connected to Origins. It’s not even connected to my research. They were simply determining which of their employees would be a satisfactory organ donor. And ‘employee’ isn’t an accurate descriptor. You and I both know those people were modern day slaves. You can’t count them as indentured servants because they have no plans of ever letting them go.”

The warm squeeze over my knee heats the right side of my body.

“I heard those people. Heard their stories. Many of them responded to a job posting. The promise of a better life for themselves. They were promised a well-paying job that would allow them to send money back home. They lied to those people. But it took me weeks to stand up to them, and even then, I backed down.”

I try so hard to be a good person. To do what is right. My parents would be so disappointed. It’s good they won’t ever know what I did.

“Sloane. I get it. If someone I loved needed an organ, I’d understand the other side too.”

“I don’t just love Sage. She’s my responsibility. And she’s my only person. I don’t like most people. They annoy me greatly. Sage is my one person.”

Which is also why it would be incredibly selfish of her to go against medical advice and have a child.

“I get it.”

“Would you quit saying that? You clearly don’t get it, or you wouldn’t still be touching me. Places like that are the reason black market organ transplants have lower success rates than US records. They aren’t testing for everything they should.” A small voice nags that’s not completely true. “That, and I suspect people who wouldn’t be approved for an organ transplant seek these alternative options. You know, alcoholics, drug addicts, maybe people with a disease who just wouldn’t be approved because in other markets, long-term viability is a factor in placement on the list. So, those factors also negatively impact success rates.”

He’s silent, and I bow my head under the weight of judgment. I can’t stand it when other people do bad things, and yet I do bad things. I knew better, but I felt torn because I understood the why. That had to have been why they picked me.

“You said Interpol estimates they have around ten thousand people in compounds like the one I was in?”

“This one organization. Yes, that’s what they’re saying.”

“Well, that’s ten thousand organ donors. In the US alone, over one hundred thousand people need organs. The United States includes approximately four percent of the world’s population. You can extrapolate that worldwide, the number of people in need of an organ in any given year is significantly larger than one hundred thousand. It’s easy to understand why the black market for organs is a multibillion-dollar business. Obviously, I knew this. My research strives to find an ethical solution to organ needs. But when I first arrived in the compound, logic reasoned, it made sense. It’s how the world works. The fittest, smartest, and most adaptable survive. But then I heard them. They had darker skin and needed showers, and they smelled, but the more I heard them, and got to know them, there was simply no justification. And yet, I kept testing them and updating their records.”

His other hand finds my other knee. “Hey.” His voice is soft. Dare I say, compassionate? Toward me?

“Sloane, you gotta remember who you’re talking to. I killed people for a living. And I was damn good at it. I’m not one to judge. But I can see it’s eating at you. And you’ve got to let it go.”

With those words, with his hands on me, it’s easier to breathe.

Sometimes it’s harder to breathe around this man, but right now it’s easier. It’s a paradox. It should be one or the other. Not both.

CHAPTER11

Max

Goosebumps rise along the silky skin of her legs. She shaves to just above her knee. The giveaway is the straight line below a smattering of golden hairs, twinkling under the sun’s rays.

I should remove my hands from her knees because my dick has been steadily thickening. Given the context of the conversation, it’s a completely inappropriate reaction.

Given I’m here for a job, and my boss spent a lot of money to ensure we have different bedrooms, I should back the fuck up and take what I just learned to the team.

I hear the brutal honesty in her voice. See it in her body posture. Jack Sullivan may be unsure he can trust her, but I trust her.

If she was hiding anything, it was the guilt from participation in what they were doing.

My gaze fixates on her thighs. She’s sitting on the edge of the lounge chair. Her shorts have ridden up…and.

Christ.

---