Chapter 4 #3
"I don't want this," she says. Her voice shakes. "I don't want you. I don't want to be here. I don't want to have conversations about trust and safety with the man who bought me at an auction. I just want—"
Her voice breaks.
"I just want my life back."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
Because I can't give her that.
Can't undo the auction.
Can't send her back to before Sarah found her.
Can only offer her this.
This house. This life. This cage disguised as luxury.
"I know," I say quietly.
I stand.
She takes a step back automatically.
I stop. Hold up my hands. Non-threatening.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Eden."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"Then what are you going to do?"
I take a breath. Decide to be honest. Completely honest.
"I'm going to be patient," I say. "I'm going to give you space. I'm going to let you set boundaries and I'm going to respect them. And eventually—not tomorrow, not next week, but eventually—I'm going to show you that you're safe here. That I'm not like the men who tried to control you before."
"How?"
"However long it takes."
She's staring at me. Searching my face for the lie. For the trap.
"What if I never feel safe with you?" she asks.
"Then I'll have failed. But I'll still keep trying."
"Why?"
"Because you're mine to protect now. And I don't fail at things that matter."
"I'm not yours."
"We've established you believe that. But Eden—" I take a careful step closer.
Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that she has to look up to meet my eyes.
"Whether you believe it or not, I'm not letting you go.
You're here. You're staying here. And I'm going to do everything in my power to make that tolerable for you. "
"Tolerable," she repeats. "What a ringing endorsement of captivity."
"It's a starting point."
"And where do you think this ends? What's your endgame here, Vaughn? Keep me locked up until Stockholm syndrome kicks in? Until I'm so desperate for human connection that I convince myself I want this?"
"No."
"Then what?"
I search for the right words.
For a way to explain what I want without terrifying her more than she already is.
"I want you to understand that your body isn't shameful," I say quietly. "That pleasure isn't sin. That you have choices—limited choices, yes, but choices nonetheless. I want to show you that touch doesn't have to mean pain. That desire doesn't make you weak. That you can want things for yourself."
Her breath catches. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about undoing twenty-three years of lies. I'm talking about showing you what your body can do when you're not taught to fear it. I'm talking about giving you the education the Sanctuary denied you."
"By doing what? Forcing yourself on me?"
"No. Never." I hold her gaze. "By giving you time. Space. Information. Resources. And when you're ready—if you're ever ready—by showing you what pleasure feels like."
"I'll never be ready for that."
"Maybe not. But I'm patient enough to wait and find out."
She's trembling now.
Not from fear, I think.
From anger.
From the weight of everything I've just said.
"This is insane," she whispers.
"Probably."
"You're insane."
"Definitely."
"I should hate you."
"You do hate me."
"Then why—" She stops. Wraps her arms around herself. "Why can't I figure you out?"
"Because I'm not who you expected me to be."
"I expected a monster."
"I might still be one. Just a different kind than you're used to."
We stand there, three feet apart, staring at each other.
And for the first time since I brought her here, she doesn't look away first.
"I'm going to my room," she says finally.
"Okay."
"Don't follow me."
"I won't."
She walks past me. Stops at the door.
"Vaughn."
I turn.
She's not looking at me. Just standing there with her back to me, hand on the doorframe.
"Yes?"
"I read about them, you know. The Sanctuary. What they did. What they really are." She pauses. "You're right that you're different from them. But that doesn't make this okay. It doesn't make you safe. It just makes you... complicated."
Then she's gone.
I stand there in the empty library for a long time.
Complicated.
I can live with complicated.
That evening, I don't join her for dinner.
I tell Mrs. Silva to serve Eden in the dining room as usual, but that I'll eat in my office.
I need to give her space, to let her process our conversation.
I need to show her that I meant what I said about respecting boundaries.
Instead, I sit at my desk with my laptop open, reading everything Dr. Caldwell sent me.
Research papers on religious trauma. Articles about deprogramming from purity culture. Books on helping trauma survivors reclaim their sexuality.
It's overwhelming. Years of damage that I'm supposed to help undo.
Me. The man who bought her at an auction.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't so fucked up.
Around ten, I check the security feed.
Eden's in her room, sitting on the bed with a book.
Not reading. Just holding it. Staring at the wall.
Thinking.
About what, I don't know.
But she's not crying. Not panicking.
Just... thinking.
I close the laptop.
Tomorrow, the items will arrive. The vibrator. The books. The silk restraints.
Tomorrow, I'll give them to her.
And then I'll wait.
Wait to see if curiosity wins over fear.
Wait to see if she opens those boxes.
Wait to see if any part of her wants to understand what I'm offering.
Because I meant what I said to her.
I'm patient.
I can wait.
I'll wait as long as it takes.
And when she's finally ready—when she finally asks—I'll show her everything.
Every single thing her body can do.
But she'll need to ask me for it first.