Gingerly, Emelia climbs into the back of the car, scooting over when Jacques shoves Sofie in after her before getting into the driver's seat while François and the other man slide into the back with them, trapping the girls in the middle.

The whole situation is reminiscent of a gangster film Emelia watched once which isn't a good sign because she specifically remembers the ending being rather gruesome in the chopped-up-body-parts-in-black-bags sort of way.

Thanks to the tinted windows and black leather seats, darkness shrouds the car's interior, somehow making the situation even more frightening. When Jacques starts the engine, it's like a monster roaring.

"Put your seatbelts on."

Emelia glances at François through the dark, frowning in confusion. It strikes her as incredibly odd that a murderer and kidnapper is concerned for her safety.

"Trust me," he continues, "You're going to need them."

Before she can respond, Jacques hits the gas with so much force that she's thrown back into the seat.

"Told you," François chuckles, settling in and stretching his arm along the back of her seat, way too close for comfort.

"Where are you taking us?" she demands, trying her best to hide the rising anxiety. She is unable to gauge which direction the car is headed but she can feel that they are driving way over the speed limit and prays that they get pulled over by the police.

"You will find out soon enough." François offers only the vaguest reply before going silent. Emelia doesn't bother asking anything else.

Nothing but the engine's gentle hum fills the car as they speed through the streets of London, the city and its lights going by so fast that it looks like streaks of red and yellow liquid outside.

Emelia feels it immediately when the car changes terrain, swapping the streets for the motorway, and a fresh wave of panic enters her system when she realises that they are leaving London. Not good.

It feels like forever until the car finally slows down and comes to a stop.

Getting out, Emelia glances around apprehensively and sees that they have arrived at an airfield.

The place is well-lit and empty, aside from a large white jet looming overhead. She catches a glimpse of a building in the distance but it's too far away to run to and there's not a single soul in sight. Definitely not good.

"Walk," François orders, nudging her from behind, but Emelia doesn't move. She is too busy gawking at the jet. Sofie stares at it too, looking positively petrified.

"Why are we here?" Emelia asks despite already knowing the answer as the other men head towards the plane.

"We are leaving England," he says.

"Why?" Emelia turns her head to look at him and is met with an irritated scowl.

"You ask too many questions. Stop talking and start walking."

"I can't get on that," Sofie suddenly blurts. The colour has drained from her face, leaving her looking almost as anaemic as him.

François raises an eyebrow at her, his expression one of someone who cannot believe another person's audacity.

"You can," he states, "And you will."

His tone of voice allows no argument and Sofie glances Emelia's way, scared and desperate.

"But we don't have our passports," she says shakily.

"You don't need them," he replies impatiently, unexpectantly grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the jet.

"Hey, wait!" Emelia exclaims in outrage, following them across the tarmac and quickly catching up to be by her cousin's side.

"No, you don't understand," Sofie continues to tell him, her voice rising with panic as she drags her feet. "There are almost one-hundred and seventy plane crashes per year and there have been over five thousand fatalities in the last decade!"

Finally, François stops and slowly turns to stare at her with cruel amusement.

"Are you trying to tell me that you're afraid of flying?"

When she doesn't reply, his expression darkens and he takes a menacing step closer to her.

"You will have something else to be afraid of if you don't start climbing those steps," he growls, tightening his grip and making Sofie wince.. "Trust me, petite fille, you don't want to piss me off."

"Don't threaten her," Emelia snaps, pushing him in order to stand protectively in front of her younger cousin. "We'll get on the bloody plane so just calm down, okay?"

François steps to the side with a disparaging smile.

"Ladies first," he sneers.

Emelia takes Sofie's hand and pulls her towards the steps leading up into the jet. The closer they get, the paler Sofie becomes until Emelia is convinced she's going to be sick.

Once inside, the jet door seals shut and Emelia looks around. A voice comes over the intercom, saying something in French, and she wonders whether the pilot knows they have two unwilling passengers on board.

"Go sit down," François instructs, pointing to the beige leather seats. "We are taking off."

Minutes later the jet's engine starts humming gently, the wheels rolling into motion, and Sofie stiffens in her seat.

"Hey," Emelia says softly, placing her hands on either side of her cousin's face when she begins to hyperventilate. "Remember your breathing exercises. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Come one, do them with me."

With wide eyes and pale cheeks, Sofie follows Emelia's lead until the jet has left the ground and the turbulence has evened out. When she is calmer, Emelia releases her and looks over to see François watching them, amused.

"Pathétique," he mutters, shaking his head, and Emelia glares straight at him.

You're the pathetic one, arsehole.

Turning to look out of the plane's little round window, she watches as the lights of London and then England slowly fade into the distance until she can't see anything at all. Anxiously, she wonders where they are going and what awaits them once they get there.

Not long after they are up in the air, the temperature in the cabin drops to an almost unbearable temperature and while the girls wrap their arms around each other to keep warm, François and his friends seem unsettlingly unaffected.

"I don't suppose you have a spare blanket somewhere around here?" Emelia queries. François glances her way, one of his dark eyebrows casually arched.

"We're cold," she explains when seconds pass without a reply.

Narrowing his eyes, he says, "What makes you think I care?"

"Well, clearly you don't!" Emelia fumes.

"That's right," he confirms, turning away from her. "I don't."

"Fine," she mutters, shivering. "Forget I even asked."

The rest of the flight is endured in tense silence until the pilot makes a second announcement, letting everyone know that they are almost at their destination. No more than an hour can have past but to Emelia, it feels like an eternity.

When the jet eventually starts to descend, Sofie grips the seat's armrests until her knuckles turn white. Curious, Emelia glances out of the window and spots the twinkling lights of some city in the far-off distance and an illuminated airstrip extending below them.

Upon exiting the jet, a second car is waiting for them. It takes them down a long stretch of road which has a line of trees on either side of it and through a high ornate entrance gate before finally coming to a stop in a large private driveway.

Getting out, Emelia quickly glances around at their new surroundings and sees that luscious green, manicured hedges line both sides of the dark path which leads up to a looming four-storey château with high turrets and illuminated windows.

"Where are we?" Emelia turns to François who stands behind her with his hands in his pockets.

"My home," he replies.

"You're home?" she repeats incredulously.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" he asks, annoyed, as he brushes past her and heads toward the house. Jacques approaches them from behind and reaches out, most likely to guide Emelia forward, but she shirks away from him.

"Don't touch me," she hisses.

Jacques' eyes narrow and Emelia, knowing now is not the greatest time to push their luck, takes Sofie's hand and together they follow François up the gravelled path.