Chapter 2 #2
"Sir." He hands me a tablet. "Contract requires signature and thumbprint."
I scan the document.
Standard acquisition terms.
One year minimum.
Financial penalties for early termination—two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from either party.
As if I'd ever terminate early.
I sign and press my thumb to the biometric scanner.
"She's inside," Callum says. "Handlers said she was cooperative. No issues during transport."
Cooperative. That word again.
"Leave us," I say.
"Sir, protocol suggests—"
"Leave us."
He hesitates. Then nods. "I'll be in the car when you're ready to depart."
He disappears down the hallway.
I'm alone outside the door that separates me from the woman I just purchased for two million dollars.
The woman I saw for exactly three minutes and decided I couldn't live without.
I don't do things like this.
I'm methodical.
Careful.
Every decision backed by data and analysis and cold calculation.
This isn't calculated.
This is something else entirely.
I open the door.
She's at the window, her forehead pressed against the glass.
Hands flat against the pane like she's trying to push through it.
Looking at the boats.
Planning her escape already.
Of course she is.
"Eden."
Her name tastes like something forbidden on my tongue.
She doesn't turn around.
Just stands there, rigid, staring out at freedom she'll never reach.
I close the door behind me.
Lock it. The click echoes in the small room.
Still, she doesn't turn.
Stubborn. I like that.
Most of the women who come through these auctions are broken before they arrive.
Beaten down by circumstances until there's nothing left but survival instinct.
But Eden? Eden is still fighting.
I can see it in the set of her shoulders.
The way her hands press harder against the glass.
She wants to run.
Let her try.
The chase will be exquisite.
I cross the room slowly.
Deliberately.
Let my footsteps announce my approach.
She turns.
And the breath catches in my throat all over again.
Up close, she's even more devastating.
Her eyes aren't just hazel—they're gold around the pupils, fading to green at the edges.
Her skin is pale.
Flawless except for a small scar on her right palm that I can see when she drops her hands to her sides.
She's trembling. Trying to hide it. Failing.
But she's not crying. Not begging. Not doing any of the things I expected.
She's looking at me like I'm a problem she's trying to solve.
Good luck with that, Eden.
I've spent thirty-six years making sure no one can solve me.
"My name is Vaughn Sutherland," I say.
She already knows.
Probably heard it when Callum collected her.
But I want to say it.
I want my name on her lips eventually.
I want a lot of things, actually.
I take another step closer.
She doesn't back away, doesn't even flinch.
Brave.
Foolish.
Both.
"You belong to me now."
The words hang between us.
Heavy. Irrevocable.
She should accept it.
Should lower her eyes and nod and make this easy on both of us.
Instead, she straightens.
Lifts her chin.
Meets my eyes dead-on.
And says the last thing I expected:
"My name is Eden Finch. And I don't belong to anyone."
For a moment, I'm genuinely surprised.
Then I smile.
I can't help it.
She has no idea what she's just started.
No idea that defiance is the one thing guaranteed to make me want to break her completely.
Not break her spirit. Never that.
But break her certainty.
Her walls.
Her conviction that she can resist what's happening between us.
Because something is happening.
I felt it on that stage.
Feel it now, standing three feet away from her.
Chemistry. Attraction. Whatever you want to call it.
She feels it too. I can see it in the way her pupils dilate. The way her breath quickens.
She doesn't want to feel it. Probably hates herself for feeling it.
But she does.
"We'll see about that," I say.
I let the words carry the weight of a promise. A threat.
Both.
Her jaw tightens. She's scared and she should be.
But she doesn't look away.
Fascinating.
I've purchased art worth tens of millions.
Cars that cost more than most houses.
Companies that employ thousands.
None of them have ever looked at me like this.
Like I'm dangerous.
Like they might be dangerous too.
"The car is waiting," I say. "We're leaving."
"Where are we going?"
Her voice.
It's lower than before.
Rougher.
Like she's been screaming or crying or both.
Probably both.
"My estate," I tell her. "In the Berkshires. You'll stay there."
"For how long?"
"As long as I want you there."
Her hands curl into fists. "The contract says one year."
So she can read. Good. I hate having to explain things.
"The contract is a legal formality," I say. "A way to make this transaction appear legitimate to anyone who might ask questions. The reality is much simpler."
I step closer.
Close enough to smell her now.
She smells like fear and something floral.
Jasmine, maybe.
Something they put in her hair.
"You're mine, Eden. For a year, certainly. But I suspect it will be much longer than that."
"I'll run."
The words are immediate. Defiant.
I laugh. I can't help it.
"Yes," I say. "You will."
That surprises her. I can see it in her eyes.
"You'll run," I continue. "And I'll find you. And when I do, you'll learn exactly what happens to things that try to escape me."
I'm close enough to touch her now.
Close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat.
Close enough to reach out and—
But I don't.
Not yet.
Anticipation is half the pleasure, and I'm very good at delayed gratification.
"Come," I say, stepping back. Giving her space. "We have a long drive ahead of us."
I turn toward the door. Unlock it. Hold it open.
Wait.
She doesn't move for a long moment. Just stands there by the window, clearly weighing her options.
There are no options, but I'll let her think there are.
For now.
Finally, she moves.
Walks toward the door on bare feet, the white dress whispering against the floor.
She pauses when she reaches me and looks up.
God, she's small.
The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder.
Something primitive stirs in my chest.
Something possessive and protective and entirely inappropriate given the circumstances.
"After you," I say.
She walks through the door.
I follow.
Callum is waiting by the car in the circular drive.
A black Mercedes S-Class. Bulletproof glass. Encrypted communications.
The kind of car that announces you have enemies worth protecting against.
He opens the back door without a word.
Eden hesitates.
"Get in," I say quietly.
She does.
Slides across the leather seat, presses herself against the far door like she's trying to maximize the distance between us.
I slide in after her, settle in the middle seat.
Not quite touching her, but close.
Callum closes the door and gets in the driver's seat.
"Home, sir?"
"Yes."
The car pulls away from the mansion.
Down the long driveway toward the private dock where my boat waits.
Eden is staring out the window, watching the mansion disappear behind us.
"You won't find anything useful to remember," I tell her. "The location changes every year. And even if you somehow made it back here, it would be empty."
She doesn't respond. Just keeps staring.
"The Consortium is very careful about security," I continue. "No one knows where the next auction will be held until a week before. Invitations are hand-delivered. Locations are wiped clean after each event."
Still nothing.
I study her profile.
The delicate line of her jaw.
The way her hair falls over her shoulder.
She's even more beautiful up close, but it's not the beauty that captivates me.
It's the intelligence in her eyes.
The way she's already planning.
Calculating. Looking for weaknesses.
She won't find any, but I'll enjoy watching her try.
We reach the dock.
Callum parks and opens my door.
I step out and extend my hand to Eden.
She ignores it. Gets out on her own. Bare feet on the cold pavement.
I smile.
"The boat," I say, gesturing to the sleek yacht moored at the end of the dock.
She walks toward it without waiting for me.
Careful steps on the wooden planks.
Callum catches my eye and raises an eyebrow.
I shrug.
Let her have these small rebellions.
They won't matter in the long run.
On the boat, I show her to the main cabin.
Leather seating. Mahogany accents. Windows on all sides.
"Sit," I say.
She sits on the far end of the curved sofa.
Pulls her knees up.
Wraps her arms around them like a child.
The defensive posture should make her look weak.
It doesn't.
It makes her look like a trapped animal.
Dangerous if cornered.
I sit at the opposite end.
Give her space.
The engine rumbles to life.
We pull away from the dock.
Eden watches through the windows as the island shrinks behind us.
As the lights from the mansion fade into darkness.
"How long have you done this?" she asks suddenly.
"Done what?"
"Bought women."
Straight to the point. I like that.
"I haven't," I say honestly. "You're my first acquisition."
Her head snaps toward me. "What?"
"I attend the auctions because I'm expected to. But I've never bid before tonight."
"Why not?"
"I never wanted to."
"And tonight you did."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I consider the question. Consider lying. Consider giving her some explanation that makes sense.
But what's the point?
"I don't know," I tell her.
And it's the truth.
I don't know why I bid two million dollars on a woman I'd never met.
Don't know why seeing her on that stage felt like I had to have her.
Don't know why the thought of someone else owning her made me want to burn the whole mansion down.
I just know that she's mine now.
And I'm not letting go.
She's staring at me. Searching my face for something.
A lie, maybe. Or the truth.
"You're lying," she says finally.
"I'm not."
"You spent two million dollars on me. You had a reason."
"I wanted you."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
Her jaw clenches. "That's not good enough."
"It's the only answer I have."
We stare at each other across the cabin.
The boat cuts through dark water.
The mainland is getting closer.
"What do you want from me?" she asks. "Sex? Labor? What?"
Direct questions. I appreciate that.
"I want you to stay," I say. "At my estate. In relative comfort. I'll provide everything you need."
"In exchange for what?"
"Your presence."
"That's all?"
"For now."
Her eyes narrow. "What does that mean?"
"It means I haven't decided yet what I want from you beyond the pleasure of your company."
It's not entirely true.
I know exactly what I want.
I want to watch her across the dinner table.
Want to hear her voice when she's not terrified.
Want to see what she looks like when she smiles.
Want to know what put that scar on her palm.
What taught her to make herself small.
What she's running from that led her to that auction.
Want to know everything.
And eventually—not today, not tomorrow, but eventually—I want to watch that defiance in her eyes transform into something else.
Want.
Need.
Surrender.
But I don't tell her any of that.
"We'll discuss expectations when we arrive," I say instead.
The boat docks.
A car waits—another Mercedes, this one driven by one of Callum's team.
Eden doesn't argue when I guide her toward it, doesn't fight when I open the door.
She's learning. Good.
The drive to my Berkshires estate takes ninety minutes.
Eden falls asleep somewhere around the hour mark.
Her head tips against the window.
Her breathing evens out.
I watch her sleep.
She looks younger like this.
Vulnerable.
The fear smoothed away by unconsciousness.
I wonder what she's dreaming about.
Escape, probably.
We pull through the gates of my estate just after two in the morning.
Fifty acres of forest and grounds.
The main house is dark except for the lights I had turned on in anticipation of our arrival.
Callum opens the door.
"We're here, sir."
Eden stirs. Blinks.
Looks around with momentary confusion before memory crashes back.
Her face shutters and the walls go up again.
Good. I'd be disappointed if she made this easy.
I get out and extend my hand again.
This time, she takes it.
Her hand is small in mine.
Calloused.
The scar on her palm rough against my skin.
She lets go as soon as she's standing.
"This way," I say.
I lead her up the steps to the front door and it opens before we reach it.
Mrs. Silva stands in the doorway.
My housekeeper.
Been with my family for thirty years.
Discreet. Loyal. Asks no questions.
"Mr. Sutherland," she says. "Welcome home."
Her eyes flick to Eden.
Something passes across her face.
Sympathy? Disapproval?
It's gone too quickly to tell.
"Mrs. Silva will show you to your room," I tell Eden. "You'll find everything you need there."
Eden looks between us.
Calculating. Probably wondering if Mrs. Silva will help her.
She won't.
But let Eden hope.
"Come, dear," Mrs. Silva says gently.
Eden follows her into the house.
Up the grand staircase. Down the hall toward the east wing.
I watch until they disappear around the corner.
Then I head to my study.
Pour three fingers of scotch and stand at the window looking out over the dark grounds.
Somewhere upstairs, Eden is being shown to a bedroom.
Being told where the bathroom is, being given fresh clothes and assurances that she's safe.
None of it is true, of course.
She's not safe.
Not from me.
I take a sip of scotch. Let it burn down my throat.
Two million dollars.
I've spent more on art. On cars.
On things that matter less than the woman currently standing in one of my guest bedrooms, probably planning her escape.
It's the best money I've ever spent.
My phone buzzes.
A text from Victor Hargrove.
Impressive acquisition. Welcome to the inner circle. We should talk.
The inner circle.
Good. I got what I came for.
And so much more.
I finish the scotch and set the glass down.
Upstairs, Eden is probably testing the door. Finding it unlocked.
I left it unlocked deliberately.
She'll think it's a mistake. An oversight.
It's not.
It's a test.
Will she run tonight? Or will she wait?
Plan? Try to find another way out?
Either way, I'll know more about her by morning.
I check my watch. Two-thirty.
I should sleep. Long day tomorrow. Business calls. The usual obligations.
But I won't sleep.
I'll stay awake. Wait.
See what Eden decides to do with her first night of freedom.
Such as it is.
Because freedom is an illusion. I learned that young.
The only thing that matters is control, and I have all of it.
Eden doesn't know that yet, but she will.
I smile into the darkness.
She will.