Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Eden
I don't sleep.
I can't.
Every time I close my eyes, I see ice-blue eyes staring at me from the audience.
Hear that cold, certain voice saying two million dollars like it's nothing.
Feel the weight of Vaughn Sutherland's gaze as he told me I belong to him.
I don't belong to anyone.
I told him that and I meant it.
But lying here in this massive bed in this unlocked bedroom in his estate in the middle of nowhere, I'm starting to understand that what I believe doesn't matter.
He believes I'm his.
And he has all the power.
The room they put me in is bigger than the entire sleeping quarters at the Sanctuary.
King-sized bed with sheets that feel like water against my skin.
Thick carpet. Heavy curtains.
An ensuite bathroom with a tub big enough to drown in and a shower with six different heads.
There's a walk-in closet.
I found it while Mrs. Silva was explaining where things were.
She opened the door and I nearly laughed.
Clothes. Dozens of them.
Dresses, pants, shirts, sweaters.
All in my size.
All with the tags still on.
"Mr. Sutherland had these brought in," Mrs. Silva said. Her voice was kind. Gentle. Like that made it better. "If anything doesn't fit, just let me know."
He bought me a wardrobe before he even met me.
Before he knew what I looked like beyond a photograph in a catalog.
The thought makes my skin crawl.
Mrs. Silva also showed me the dresser—full of undergarments, also in my size.
The bathroom—stocked with toiletries, expensive brands I don't recognize.
The bookshelf—filled with novels, classics, contemporary fiction.
Everything I could possibly need.
Except freedom.
"The door is unlocked," she said before she left. "You can move about the house as you please. The kitchen is downstairs if you're hungry. Mr. Sutherland asks that you join him for breakfast at eight."
Asks.
Like I have a choice.
"What if I refuse?" I asked.
She paused in the doorway. Looked at me with something that might have been pity.
"I wouldn't recommend it, dear."
Then she left.
That was four hours ago.
I've been lying here ever since, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence.
It's so quiet here.
Nothing like the Sanctuary, where you could always hear something—people moving, animals in the barn, the wind through the trees.
Here, there's just... nothing.
Like the whole world has been muffled.
Like I've been buried alive in luxury.
I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
I'm still wearing the white dress.
Mrs. Silva offered me nightclothes—silk pajamas in a drawer—but I couldn't bring myself to change.
Couldn't bring myself to accept anything from this place.
Couldn't admit I'm staying.
Even though I am.
For now.
My feet sink into the carpet as I stand.
I go to the window and pull back the heavy curtains.
Darkness.
Nothing but darkness and the vague shapes of trees against a slightly less dark sky.
No lights. No houses. No roads.
Just forest.
I don't know where I am.
Don't know how far we drove after the boat.
I fell asleep in the car—exhausted from fear and adrenaline crash—and woke up here.
Trapped.
I try the window.
It's locked.
Not just locked—sealed somehow.
I can see the mechanism but can't figure out how to open it.
Of course.
I let the curtain fall closed.
The door is unlocked, Mrs. Silva said.
I should test that.
Should see if it's true or if it's another lie in a long line of lies that started with Sarah at that bus station.
I cross to the door and put my hand on the knob.
It turns.
The door opens.
I stand there, staring at the dark hallway beyond, hardly believing it.
He left it unlocked.
Why?
It has to be a trap.
A test.
He wants to see if I'll run.
Wants an excuse to punish me when he catches me.
But what if it's not?
What if he's careless? Arrogant enough to think I won't try?
What if this is my chance?
I step into the hallway.
It's long.
Dark. Lined with closed doors.
I can see a staircase at the far end.
The grand staircase we came up when we arrived.
I move quietly, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.
At the Sanctuary, I learned to move without sound.
It was safer that way.
Easier to avoid attention when you could slip through rooms like a ghost.
I reach the staircase and look down.
The foyer below is dimly lit.
I can see the front door.
Heavy wood. Probably locked.
But maybe not.
I start down the stairs.
One step at a time.
Testing each one for creaks.
They're solid. Well-made. Silent.
Everything in this house is expensive. Perfect. Designed to last forever.
Designed to keep people in.
I reach the bottom of the stairs.
The front door is fifteen feet away.
I can see it. Can almost feel the cold night air on my face.
Just fifteen feet.
I take a step.
"Going somewhere?"
I freeze.
The voice comes from my left.
From a room I didn't notice.
An open doorway spilling warm light into the foyer.
Vaughn.
Of course it's Vaughn.
He steps into the doorway.
Still wearing the suit from the auction, though he's lost the jacket.
Shirtsleeves rolled up. Tie gone. Glass of something amber in his hand.
He looks relaxed. Amused.
Like he was waiting for this.
"The door's locked," he says. "Biometric scanner. Only responds to my thumbprint and Callum's."
Callum. The British man from the car.
"But you're welcome to try," Vaughn continues. He takes a sip of his drink. "I'm curious to see how long it takes you to give up."
Anger flares hot in my chest.
He was testing me.
Left my door unlocked deliberately.
Waited to see what I'd do.
And I walked right into it.
"Come," he says, gesturing to the room behind him. "Since you're awake anyway."
"I want to go back to my room."
"No, you don't. You want to leave. But since that's not an option, you might as well talk to me."
"I don't want to talk to you."
"Nevertheless."
He disappears back into the room.
I stand there in the foyer, staring at the front door I can't open.
I could try. Could run at it. Pound on it. Scream.
But there's no one to hear.
And Vaughn would just watch with that amused expression until I exhausted myself.
I follow him into the room.
It's a study.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A massive desk. Leather chairs. A fireplace with a fire burning low.
It's warm here. Almost too warm after the cool hallway.
Vaughn is standing by the fireplace.
He gestures to one of the chairs. "Sit."
"I'll stand."
He shrugs. "Suit yourself."
He settles into one of the chairs, crosses one leg over the other, and studies me over the rim of his glass.
I hate how calm he is. How controlled.
At the Sanctuary, when men were angry, they showed it. Raised voices. Red faces. Sometimes fists.
But Vaughn? Vaughn is perfectly contained.
Which somehow makes him more frightening.
"You didn't sleep," he observes.
"How do you know?"
"I've been awake. Listening."
My skin crawls. "You were listening to me?"
"This is my house. I'm aware of everything that happens in it."
Cameras. There must be cameras.
I glance around. Don't see any. But that doesn't mean they're not there.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
"No."
"Thirsty?"
"No."
"Liar."
I clench my jaw. "I don't want anything from you."
"You're going to have to want something eventually, Eden. You can't survive on stubbornness alone."
"Somehow I think I'll manage."
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"Tell me about the Sanctuary," he says.
The words hit me like a slap.
"What?"
"The Sanctuary. The cult you escaped from. Tell me about it."
How does he know?
My catalog listing said no family ties. Compliant temperament. Nothing about the Sanctuary.
"Your file," he says, reading my expression. "It was quite detailed. Born into a religious community in the Ozark Mountains. Mother died when you were twelve. Father still living but estranged. Promised in marriage to a community elder. Escaped two weeks before the wedding."
My file.
They made a file on me.
On my entire life.
And sold it along with my body.
"I don't want to talk about it," I say.
"I'm not asking what you want. I'm telling you what I want."
"And I'm supposed to just obey?"
"Yes."
The word is simple. Final.
I stare at him. At this man who bought me for two million dollars and thinks that gives him the right to every part of me.
"No," I say.
His eyebrow raises. "No?"
"You can lock me in this house. You can watch me on cameras and test me with unlocked doors. But you can't make me talk."
"Can't I?"
There's something dangerous in his voice now.
Something that makes every instinct I have scream at me to back down.
But I don't.
"The contract says I have to stay here," I say. "It says I'm your companion for a year. It doesn't say I have to tell you my life story."
He sets his glass down and stands.
I force myself not to step back as he approaches.
He stops a foot away.
Close enough that I can smell him—expensive cologne and something underneath it.
Something that makes my pulse spike.
"You're right," he says quietly. "The contract doesn't specify the nature of our interactions. It's quite vague, actually. Room and board in exchange for companionship."
He reaches out.
I flinch.
His hand hovers in the air between us.
Then he lowers it.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Eden."
"You already did. You bought me."
"I saved you."
I laugh. Can't help it. The sound is bitter.
"Saved me? From what?"
"From whatever would have happened if someone else had won that auction. There were forty-seven other men in that room. Some of them..." He trails off. "Let's just say you're safer with me than you would have been with them."
"Safe," I repeat. "You think I'm safe here?"
"Safer."
"You don't get credit for being less terrible than you could be."
Something flickers in his eyes. Anger? Respect?
"Fair enough," he says.
He turns, goes back to his chair, and picks up his glass.
"You'll join me for breakfast at eight," he says. "Mrs. Silva will prepare whatever you'd like."
"And if I refuse?"