Page 77 of Sinner's End

She stops, her head tilted to one side and when she looks up at me, some of the old Emma is there, a spark of sexual awakening. No, that part of her isn’t dead, just worn through. Empty. That’s all right, we can top that up together. We haveall the time in eternity, after all. Hours and days don’t matter at Heaven’s Gate.

She really should have read the terms more closely.

Her heart-shaped face tips back, her body so tiny I could place my hands around her waist and squeeze my fingers together easily on either side to touch them again, dwarfing her. Overpower her with nothing but literal size. Some part of me likes that imagery, and I file it away to play with later.

Her fingers raise to stroke the front of my pristine white shirt beneath the white overcoat. A professional-looking touch I like when I’m in this form. Her contact isn’t the usual for this situation, but her interest amuses me, and I allow it for now. An experiment conducted under controlled circumstances.

“You … you remind me of someone,” she whispers.

I match her faint smile. “It’s the eyes,” I whisper back, blinking slowly, allowing my irises to darken for an instant, letting her glimpse the similarities.

“Mana?” Her murmur, filled with all the hate, the confusion, the sexual longing of their past iteration hits me like a drug of its own.

Yes, Emma will be fun to play with during her stay.

“My son and I share many … similarities.”

I let that thought swim in the charged air between us. Picking a memory out of her thoughts, I trail my fingertips across her nape like he did right before he pushed her to her knees and filled her mouth with his thick cock once.

Not that she remembers the incident actively, due to the unusual qualities of his bodily secretions. Mine have other properties.

“Oh.” Her sigh lights my blood in a way I haven’t felt in an eon.

I continue walking, carrying her bag in a death grip that nearly tears the handle from the item with the need flowingthrough me. Control is the ultimate test, it won’t do to ruin her before I’ve had time torturing my new plaything.

“I believe you’ll find the facilities … hygienic.”

It’s not the word any of my wards expect, and I try to always keep them off balance. They’re more manageable and far more fun that way.

“All right.” Fresh uncertainty fills her voice.

“This is where you will eat.” I point out the empty cafeteria, with its bare row of never used bain-maries, and the spotless dining hall.

“That looks welcoming.” Her voice lilts before a small, dry cough evicts from her throat. “I’m thirsty. Is there something…?”

“It’s the air. It irritates everyone. Something to do with the evaporator.” I’m getting my quota of fibs in early today. “This way.”

I lead her along a bright white corridor that matches the entire decor of Heaven’s Gate, my footsteps absent in this place along with my shadow and hers, but she’s too overwhelmed to notice. White walls are the standard that seem to glow from within. This matches the floors, the ceilings, and as such there is no need for windows or lighting. My institution is completely blocked off from the outside world. From reality in every sense.

Once a patient walks in those doors, they will never leave, ever again. Not feel sunlight on their skin, not taste fresh air, or rain on their lips.

Nor will they be able to die.

She really should have read the terms before she signed.

I sigh my contentment as we pass closed doors. Twenty-two rooms, all white, all the same. Some are empty, while others are filled. Emma will bring our current total complement up to fifty percent capacity.

In the center of the corridor, I place her bag on the floor beside her door and swipe a card to the reader beside it. Thelock clicks open to expose a stark, white room filled with basic furniture. Every piece, including the bed, has curved edges only. It won’t do to allow my patients to hurt themselves on sharp things whilst in my care.

No blankets, no sheets, no cushions. No carpet. Nothing, except for what she brings with her. A gesture of hope I allow for a while longer.

“Welcome,” I murmur, gesturing her inside the room.

Emma dithers at the threshold. This is my least favorite part. The need to push her inside strengthens with each breath, but I can’t make this decision for her. Signature or not, she must cross into the room of her own free will.

“When does the treatment start?” she whispers, staring through the doorway that glows at the edges.

The room itself has a radiance to it, though she won’t realize that never goes away until she tries to sleep, and can’t. That’s step one, and my program is endless.

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