The next evening, a female attendant with impassive eyes secured a thick silk blindfold over Stiles’s face. Darkness swallowed her. Cool air prickled her bare skin—she wore only a sheer black robe tied loosely at the waist. Fingers gripped her elbow, guiding her down unfamiliar corridors. Silence pressed in, broken only by her own quickening breaths and the soft shuffle of footsteps. A heavy door groaned open. The attendant’s voice was flat: "Wait." Then, retreating footsteps. The door clicked shut. Isolation. Stiles stood frozen, heart hammering. She listened—nothing but her pulse roaring in her ears. Then, low voices echoed around her, circling like predators.

Derek’s rough whisper brushed her left ear, startlingly close: "Trembling already, whore?" Hands—calloused, possessive—slid beneath her robe from behind, cupping her breasts. Stiles gasped. "Derek?" Fingers pinched her nipples hard. Stiles cried out. "Wrong," Scott’s sinful purr came from her right. "Guess again."