Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Eden
Three days.
It's been three days since Vaughn left those boxes in my room.
Three days since he told me he wants to show me that pleasure isn't a sin.
Three days of staring at them on my dresser, afraid to open them.
Afraid of what it means if I do.
Afraid of what it means if I don't.
Well—afraid to open one of them.
I opened the box with the books the first night.
Couldn't help myself.
The curiosity was too strong, pulling at me like a thread I couldn't stop tugging.
Come As You Are by Emily Nagoski.
A book about female sexuality.
About how women's bodies work.
About desire and arousal and pleasure and all the things that exist in the world beyond the Sanctuary's walls.
Things I was never taught at the Sanctuary.
Things I was taught to fear.
I read it cover to cover that first night, curled up in bed with the lamp on low, my heart racing every time I turned a page.
The book talks about arousal like it's normal.
Natural.
Like women are designed for pleasure, not just procreation.
Like our bodies aren't shameful vessels that need to be controlled and suppressed and hidden away.
It says desire is normal.
That women want sex—actually want it, not just submit to it.
That our bodies have parts designed solely for pleasure, with no other biological purpose.
Eight thousand nerve endings in the clitoris.
More than anywhere else in the human body, male or female.
I had to stop reading when I got to that part.
Had to set the book down and press my palms against my burning cheeks and try to breathe.
Because at the Sanctuary, we weren't even supposed to know that word.
Weren't supposed to know those parts of our bodies existed except as shameful things that would belong to our husbands someday.
But the book says they belong to us.
To women. That pleasure is our birthright, not something granted by men.
The idea is revolutionary. Terrifying.
Intoxicating.
I started the second book the next night.
Stories from women who grew up in purity culture just like me.
Women who had to unlearn shame. Who had to discover their own bodies after years—decades—of being taught they were dirty and wrong for even thinking about desire.
I recognize myself in every single story.
The fear when you realize your wedding night is approaching and you have no idea what to expect beyond pain and duty.
The confusion when your body responds to something it's not supposed to respond to.
The anger when you finally understand that everything you were taught was a lie designed to control you.
But also—and this is what I can't shake—the curiosity.
The wondering about what your body might be capable of if you weren't taught to suppress everything.
If you were allowed to explore. To discover. To feel.
That curiosity is what keeps me awake at night now, staring at the second box on my dresser.
The one I haven't opened.
I know what's inside.
Vaughn told me when he left them.
A vibrator. Massage oil.
Things meant to help me explore my own body.
Things meant to teach me that pleasure isn't shameful.
Things I'm absolutely terrified to touch.
Because touching them means admitting something to myself.
Means crossing a line I can't uncross.
Means accepting that maybe—maybe—some part of me wants what he's offering.
And I can't admit that.
Can't admit that this man who bought me at an auction might be right about something.
Can't admit that my body might want things my mind says it shouldn't.
Can't admit that the curiosity is eating me alive.
So the box sits there. Unopened. Taunting me.
I'm sitting on the bed in silk pajamas I finally let myself wear because the cotton nightgowns I brought from the Sanctuary were scratchy and uncomfortable and wearing them felt like clinging to a past I can't get back to anyway.
The pajamas are soft. Comfortable. They feel like water against my skin.
Everything here is soft. Luxurious. Designed for comfort and pleasure and ease.
Designed to make me forget I'm in a cage.
And it's working.
That's what terrifies me most of all.
I'm getting comfortable here.
Getting used to the good food and the endless books and the hot showers that last as long as I want.
Getting used to Vaughn's presence at breakfast and dinner, his careful questions, the way he watches me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
Getting used to captivity.
And I hate that about myself.
I'm staring at the unopened box, my second book finished and lying on the nightstand, when there's a knock on my door.
"Eden?"
Vaughn's voice sends a jolt through my system.
He never comes to my room at night.
We have our routine—breakfast, I disappear to the library, dinner, I come back here.
He doesn't intrude on this space.
Until now.
My heart is suddenly pounding. "What?"
"May I come in?"
No. Absolutely not. "Why?"
"I want to talk to you about something."
"We can talk tomorrow at breakfast."
A pause. Long enough that I think he might leave. "This is... private. Personal. I'd rather discuss it now, if you're willing."
Private. Personal.
Those words send a shiver down my spine that I don't want to examine too closely.
"I'm in my pajamas," I say. Like that matters. Like that's a barrier that means anything.
"That's fine. I'll give you a minute to put on a robe if you'd like. I'm not here to make you uncomfortable, Eden."
I look down at the silk pajamas.
They're modest—long pants, long-sleeved top, buttons up the front.
But they're still pajamas.
Still intimate in a way that makes this feel dangerous.
I grab the robe hanging on the bathroom door. It matches the pajamas, same soft silk, and I pull it on and tie it tightly around my waist.
Armor.
Even if it's just silk that wouldn't protect me from anything.
"Okay," I call, my voice not as steady as I want it to be.
The door opens slowly.
Vaughn steps inside and closes it behind him, and suddenly my bedroom feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
He's changed from his usual suit.
Now he's wearing dark pants and a black t-shirt, casual in a way I've never seen him.
The shirt fits close to his body, showing the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his arms, the lean muscle of his chest and stomach.
At the Sanctuary, men and women dressed modestly.
Loose clothing that hid the shape of the body.
Nothing form-fitting.
Nothing that might inspire lustful thoughts.
But here—God, here I can see everything.
Can see exactly how he's built.
Can't help but notice the way he moves, all controlled power and predatory grace.
"You don't need to look so terrified," he says quietly, staying near the door. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because you keep looking at me like I'm about to."
I pull the robe tighter around myself, trying to create more layers between his gaze and my body. "What do you want?"
His eyes flick to the dresser.
To the unopened box sitting there like an accusation.
"You haven't opened it," he observes.
"I opened the books."
"But not the other box."
"No."
"Why not?"
Because I'm afraid.
Because opening it feels like admitting defeat.
Because I don't know what it means if I'm curious about what's inside.
Because my hands shake every time I reach for it and I end up pulling back at the last second.
"I don't want to," I say instead.
"Liar."
The word is soft.
Not accusatory.
Just... knowing.
Like he can see right through me to all the things I'm trying to hide.
"You don't know what I want," I say, but it sounds defensive even to my own ears.
"Don't I?" He moves closer—not crowding me, but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
Close enough that I can smell him, that same expensive cologne mixed with something underneath it that's just him.
"You've read both books cover to cover. Mrs. Silva says you've barely eaten the last three days because you've been so absorbed in reading.
You're curious, Eden. You want to know if what they say is true. "
He's right.
God, he's right and I hate that he can read me so easily.
"So what if I am?" I challenge. "That doesn't mean—"
"It doesn't mean you want me involved. I know." He sits in the chair by the window, deliberately putting distance between us again.
The casual way he moves, like he belongs in this space, makes something in my chest tighten. "But I think you're scared to try alone. Scared of doing it wrong. Scared of what it might mean if you like it."
The words hit too close to something I've been trying not to think about.
"The Sanctuary taught you that your body is shameful," he continues, his voice quiet but intense. "That desire is sin. That pleasure only exists for men, and women are supposed to endure it as their duty. But Eden—" His eyes lock on mine. "What if everything they taught you was a lie?"
"I don't know that it was."
"Yes, you do. You've read the books. You've seen what they say. Seen the research. The testimonies from other women. You know the Sanctuary lied to you about this. Just like they lied about your mother needing to die in childbirth instead of going to a hospital."
I flinch.
He's never brought up my mother before, never pushed that particular wound.
"That's different," I say.
"Is it? Both are about control. About keeping women ignorant and afraid so they'll be easier to manage.
Your mother died because the elders valued their power over her life.
You almost married Elder Jacob because they valued their power over your body.
It's the same lie, Eden. Just different applications. "
My hands are shaking.
I clench them into fists to hide it.
"Why do you care so much about this?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intend. "About whether I... whether I understand my own body? What does it matter to you?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes never leaving mine.