Chapter 4 #2
"I have someone staying with me. A woman. She's recovering from severe religious trauma. Purity culture. She's never had any sexual experience and has been taught that her body is shameful. That desire is sin."
"I see. And you want to help her recover from that programming?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Sutherland, recovery from that kind of trauma takes years. Therapy. Support. It's not something that can be rushed."
"I understand. But I want to start. I want to show her that pleasure isn't shameful. That her body can feel good. I want to do it right. Carefully. Without causing more harm."
A pause. "Is she willing?"
The question stops me.
"Not yet," I admit. "But I think she could be. Eventually. If I approach it correctly."
"Mr. Sutherland, consent is—"
"I know what consent is," I interrupt. "I'm not going to force her. I'm asking for guidance on how to help her understand that she has a choice. That pleasure is possible. That her body belongs to her, not to me or anyone else."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Send me her background," Dr. Caldwell says finally.
"Everything you know about her religious upbringing.
I'll put together some recommendations. Reading materials.
Approaches. But Mr. Sutherland, I need to be clear: if at any point she says no, you stop.
Immediately. No matter how far you've gotten.
No matter how close you think she is. Consent can be withdrawn at any time. "
"I understand."
"Good. I'll have recommendations for you by tomorrow."
She hangs up.
I sit there, staring at my phone.
This is insane. I know it's insane.
I bought a woman at an auction and now I'm consulting a sex therapist on how to seduce her without traumatizing her.
But I can't stop.
Can't let this go.
Can't accept that she'll never want me.
I need her to want me. Need her to choose me.
Even if that choice is made in a cage.
That afternoon, I go shopping.
Not personally. I never shop personally.
But I call my usual vendor.
A woman who specializes in high-end, discreet purchases for clients who value privacy.
"Mr. Sutherland," she greets me. Professional. No-nonsense. "How can I help you?"
"I need items delivered. Discreetly. By tomorrow morning."
"Of course. What are you looking for?"
I think about Eden.
About her complete innocence. Her fear.
The way she was taught that her body is shameful.
"A vibrator," I say. "Small. Nothing intimidating. High quality. Whisper-quiet motor. Something that looks elegant, not clinical."
"Color preference?"
"Something soft. Rose gold, maybe. Or champagne. Not red, nothing aggressive."
"Understood. What else?"
"Massage oil. High-end. Unscented—she might be sensitive to fragrances. Natural ingredients."
"Noted."
"Silk restraints. Soft. Beautiful. Nothing that looks like bondage gear. I want them to feel luxurious, not threatening."
I can hear her typing. "Anything else?"
"Books. On female sexuality. Female pleasure. Written for women, by women. Educational but accessible. Nothing too clinical. Nothing that assumes prior knowledge."
"I have several excellent recommendations in that category."
"Include them all. And—" I pause. "Lingerie. But not the typical male fantasy stuff. Comfortable. Soft. The kind of thing that makes a woman feel beautiful, not objectified. Her measurements are—"
I give her Eden's size from the file.
"Excellent taste, Mr. Sutherland. Anything else?"
I think for a moment. "Candles. Unscented or very subtle scent. Something that creates ambiance without being overwhelming. And chocolate. High-end. Dark chocolate, nothing too sweet."
"Creating a mood?"
"Creating trust."
"Understood. Total will be approximately twelve thousand dollars, including rush delivery. Wire transfer acceptable?"
"Yes. Send the details."
"You'll have everything by eight a.m. tomorrow. Will that work?"
"Perfect."
I hang up.
Twelve thousand dollars on items I might never use.
Items Eden might throw in my face if I try to give them to her.
But I have to try.
Have to show her that I see her as more than property. More than a purchase.
That I want her to feel good. Want her to discover her own body on her own terms.
Even if those terms eventually include me.
I check my watch. Four-thirty in the afternoon.
Eden will be in the library.
She goes there every afternoon around three and stays until dinner.
Always reading. Always escaping into someone else's story.
I should leave her alone, give her space like Callum suggested.
But I can't.
I need to see her. Need to talk to her. Need to start building whatever this is going to become.
I head upstairs. Down the long hallway to the east wing.
The library door is open.
I can see her curled in her usual chair by the window, book in her lap, completely absorbed.
Jane Eyre. Still.
She's been reading it for three days now, savoring every page.
She looks peaceful.
For the first time since she arrived, she looks almost content.
I don't want to disturb that.
But I need to talk to her.
I knock softly on the doorframe.
She looks up. The peace vanishes instantly. Her entire body tenses.
"I'm sorry," she says immediately. Defensive. "I know you said I could use the library but if you need—"
"Eden." I step into the room but stay near the door. Don't crowd her. "You don't need to apologize. This is your home too."
She doesn't look convinced.
"May I join you?" I ask.
Surprise flickers across her face.
I'm asking permission.
Not demanding. Not commanding.
"I—yes. I suppose."
I cross to the chair opposite hers. Sit. Leave the coffee table between us as a buffer.
She's watching me warily.
Her book is still open in her lap, but she's not reading anymore.
Just watching me like I'm a threat she needs to monitor.
"What are you reading?" I ask.
She glances down at the book like she's forgotten she's holding it. "Jane Eyre."
"What do you think of it?"
"I think Jane is an idiot for going back to Rochester."
That surprises a laugh out of me. "Most people find the ending romantic."
"Most people are wrong. He lied to her. Kept his wife locked in the attic. Jane deserved better."
"She loved him."
"Love doesn't excuse abuse," she says sharply.
The words hang between us. Heavy with implications she probably doesn't even realize.
"No," I agree quietly. "It doesn't."
We're quiet for a moment. Eden is still tense, still watching me like I might lunge at her any second.
"I've been thinking," I say carefully, "about what you said. About the contract. About how it doesn't specify what our relationship should be."
Her grip tightens on the book. "And?"
"And you're right. I've been treating this like a transaction. Like I bought you and therefore you owe me... something. Companionship. Obedience. Whatever the contract says."
"You did buy me."
"I know. But that doesn't mean I own you. It just means—" I pause, searching for the right words. "It means you're here. And I'm here. And we need to figure out how to exist together."
"Exist together," she repeats flatly. "Is that what we're calling captivity now?"
"You're not my prisoner, Eden."
"I can't leave."
"No," I admit. "You can't. Not yet. But within these walls, within this property, you have freedom. You can go anywhere. Do anything. The only requirement is that you're here."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do I have to be here? You've barely spoken to me in four days. You don't seem to want anything from me except my presence at meals. So, why? Why spend two million dollars on someone you're just going to ignore?"
It's a fair question.
"I'm not ignoring you," I say.
"Then what are you doing?"
"Trying to figure out how to talk to you without making you more afraid than you already are."
That surprises her. I can see it in her eyes.
"I don't understand you," she says quietly.
"I don't understand myself right now either."
"You bought me."
"I know."
"You brought me here against my will."
"I know."
"You keep me locked in this house."
"The doors aren't locked—"
"The exits are. Don't pretend this is freedom when we both know I'm trapped."
She's right.
God, she's right.
"Okay," I say. "You're right. You're trapped here. I won't pretend otherwise."
She blinks, like she expected me to argue.
"But," I continue, "I want you to understand something. I didn't buy you to hurt you. I didn't bring you here to break you. I brought you here because—"
I stop. How do I explain this?
"Because when I saw you on that stage," I say slowly, "something happened. Something I don't have words for. It wasn't just attraction. It was recognition. Like you were something I'd been looking for without knowing I was searching."
"That's not an excuse."
"I know. But it's the truth."
She's quiet for a long moment. Studying my face like she's looking for a lie.
"What do you want from me?" she asks finally. "Really. Not the bullshit about companionship. What do you actually want?"
Honesty. She's asking for honesty.
I could lie. Should lie.
Should say something that makes me sound less obsessed, less dangerous.
But I'm tired of lying.
"I want you to stop being afraid of me," I say.
"I'll always be afraid of you. You bought me."
"I want you to talk to me without flinching every time I move."
"You're unpredictable. You could hurt me any time you wanted."
"I want—" I pause. Search for the right words. "I want you to trust that I'm not going to hurt you. I want you to feel safe here. I want you to look at me the way you look at the books in this library. With interest instead of terror."
"You want me to like my cage."
"I want you to see that it doesn't have to be a cage."
"What else would you call it?"
"A home. A sanctuary. A place where you're protected from everything that was hunting you."
"Like my father?" she asks sharply. "Like the Sanctuary? Like Elder Jacob?"
"Yes."
"I don't need your protection."
"Maybe not. But you have it anyway."
She stands abruptly. The book falls from her lap. She doesn't pick it up.