Chapter 14 Aiden
AIDEN
My jaw is clenched so tight that it feels like I might break a tooth. I don’t think I can do this.
I’ve trained women to be submissive, to even be slaves, both as part of the training programs here for our black ops division and in my free time as a Dominant at the clubs. I love nothing more than reducing a woman to tears, then being the one to wipe them away.
But this situation is wildly different.
Not just because Lana hasn’t consented to it, the way the women I play with at the clubs do. But because she's broken in a way that makes my chest ache with something I can't name.
The women I've played with before, they chose to submit. They found freedom in surrender, power in giving up control. Lana doesn't have that luxury.
Her submission isn't a choice—it's survival.
I finish applying the cream to her welts, trying to ignore the way she trembles under my touch. Not from pleasure or anticipation, but from fear. Always fear.
"You can turn around now," I say, stepping back to give her space.
She faces me, arms wrapped protectively around herself, eyes downcast. The picture of perfect submission that should satisfy something primal in me. Instead, it makes me feel sick.
"The clothes are still in your room," I tell her. "Get dressed, then come find me. We need to talk."
Her head snaps up, those green eyes wide with panic. "Did I do something wrong, Sir? I can do better, I—"
"No, Lana." I cut off her frantic words. "You didn't do anything wrong."
Her eyes widen at the sound of her name on my lips. Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe, or remembrance. For a moment, I glimpse the woman beneath the training.
"I just think you'd be more comfortable with clothes on for our conversation," I add, deliberately softening my tone.
She nods silently, her shoulders still rigid with tension. The distrust in her eyes is palpable. My consideration of her comfort clearly doesn't align with whatever hell she's been through these past months.
I step aside to let her pass. As she moves by me, I catch the faint scent of fear-sweat and beneath it, something uniquely her.
She inhales sharply when our proximity narrows, her pupils dilating slightly. Her body responding to mine despite her mind's resistance.
I lead her back down the hallway, then watch her slip into her room, where I've left clothes—gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. Basic, non-threatening.
I realize too late I forgot underwear. Another oversight that will likely reinforce whatever narrative she's constructed about my intentions.
I wait in the hallway while she dresses herself, making no move to close the door. I’d imagine that privacy isn’t on her mind at all at this point.
When she pulls the sweatpants over her bruised ass, she lets out a barely-audible hiss.
I wince at the sound. I hate the idea that the only way to get information from her is through force, when she’s been through so much.
There has to be an easier way to undo the training and conditioning she’s gone through, to pull out the information we need to take down the trafficking ring as well as return Lana to her life.
But I’m starting to worry that this might be the only way.