Chapter 6 #2
If she's ready to discover what else her body can do.
What else I can show her.
Two hours later, I'm still awake.
Still thinking about her.
Still hard despite taking myself in hand in the shower twenty minutes ago, my palm wrapped around my cock, hot water pounding on my shoulders while I thought about Eden's face when she came, the sounds she made, the way her body responded despite all her fear.
I came hard, my forehead pressed against the cold tile, her name on my lips like a prayer or a curse.
And hated myself a little for it.
Because this is supposed to be about her liberation, not my gratification.
But I'm starting to realize I can't separate the two anymore.
Can't pretend this is purely strategic when my body responds to her like she's air and I've been drowning.
My phone rings, shattering the silence.
Different number this time.
I check the screen.
Victor Hargrove.
Fuck.
I consider not answering.
Consider letting it go to voicemail.
But Victor doesn't call at one in the morning unless it's important.
And ignoring a Consortium inner circle member is never wise, especially when you're being considered for said inner circle yourself.
I answer. "Hargrove."
"Sutherland." His voice is smooth, cultured, the accent that comes from old money and older power, from generations of men who've never been told no. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"It's one in the morning."
"Yes, well, some of us keep late hours. Besides, I assumed you'd still be awake. New acquisition and all. I remember my first—couldn't sleep for weeks." He laughs, the sound making my skin crawl. "I wanted to check in about your purchase. See how you're settling in with her."
My jaw tightens. I force my voice to stay level. "She's fine."
"Just fine? You paid two million for her, Sutherland. I expected a more enthusiastic review. Geoffrey Morrison has been absolutely effusive about his acquisition from the same auction. Says she's already quite... accomplished."
The implication makes my stomach turn.
"She's adjusting," I say carefully. "It takes time to build the right dynamic."
"Hmm. Yes, I suppose it does. Though some of the other buyers from that auction have reported quite satisfactory experiences already.
Morrison's girl was performing oral sex within forty-eight hours.
Richard's new toy begs so prettily he can't resist her.
But then again, they have more experience with acquisitions than you do. "
"Different approaches for different results."
"Indeed. Which brings me to why I'm calling." Victor's voice takes on a sharper edge.
"I'm not interested in compliance, Hargrove. I'm interested in willing participation."
Victor laughs, and the sound is like nails on slate.
"Willing. How quaintly romantic. But Sutherland, you do understand that's not really the point of these acquisitions, don't you?
We don't buy them to court them. We don't waste time on their feelings or their comfort or their supposed agency.
We buy them to own them. To use them. To demonstrate our power. "
"I'm aware of the Consortium's philosophy."
"Are you? Because I'm starting to wonder.
You've been a member for five years. Never participated in an auction before, always found excuses to avoid our gatherings, kept yourself at the periphery.
Then suddenly you bid two million on a virgin cult escapee—outbidding some very powerful men, I might add—and now you're talking about 'willing participation' like you're dating her instead of owning her. "
I force my voice to stay level, to not reveal the anger building in my chest. "My methods are my own business."
"Normally, yes. But when you're being considered for inner circle membership, Sutherland, your methods become everyone's business.
We need to know you understand how this works.
How power works. How control works. How to take what you want and keep it without all this—" He pauses with theatrical disdain. "—sentiment."
"I understand perfectly."
"Do you? Because the inner circle has been watching. And some members are concerned that you've gone soft. That you're too focused on making your acquisition comfortable instead of breaking her to your will. That you're treating her like a person instead of property."
The words land like slaps across my face, each one precise and calculated.
"I haven't gone soft," I say through gritted teeth. "I'm simply being strategic. A broken woman is useless. A willing one is infinitely more valuable. She'll do more, endure more, give more if she believes she's choosing it."
"Strategic. Interesting word choice." Victor pauses, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "The spring gathering is in three weeks, Sutherland. March fifteenth. The inner circle members bring their acquisitions. Show them off. Demonstrate their... training. I assume you'll be bringing yours?"
My stomach turns. "That's the expectation."
"Yes. And we'll be watching very carefully how she responds to you. How well you've established control. How thoroughly you've claimed ownership. She should be devoted, compliant, eager to please you in front of others. Should demonstrate without question who she belongs to."
I'm quiet, my mind racing.
Three weeks.
Three weeks to make Eden into what the Consortium expects.
Three weeks to break her while pretending to liberate her.
Three weeks to turn her into something I promised I wouldn't make her.
"Make sure she's ready, Sutherland," Victor continues.
"Make sure there's no doubt who she belongs to.
Because if you can't demonstrate adequate control, if she shows any hesitation or resistance, if you've failed to properly train her—" He lets the threat hang in the air.
"Well. The inner circle doesn't accept failures. And we have very long memories."
"She'll be ready," I hear myself say.
"Good. I'm looking forward to seeing your... methods in action. Goodnight, Sutherland."
He hangs up.
I sit there, phone in hand, Victor's words echoing in my head like a curse.
Show her off. Demonstrate training. Establish control. Claim ownership.
Everything I've told Eden I wasn't doing.
Everything I've promised her I was different from.
But I'm not different, am I?
I bought her at an auction.
I keep her locked in my house.
I'm using her trauma and vulnerability to make her want me, to make her dependent, to make her choose the cage while believing it's freedom.
The only difference is I'm pretending it's for her benefit.
Pretending I'm helping her heal when really I'm just grooming her to be acceptable to the Consortium.
To perform her devotion to me in front of men who see women as property to be used and displayed.
To prove I'm one of them.
Fuck.
I set down the phone and pour another scotch.
Victor's right about one thing—I am different from the other Consortium members.
But not in a good way.
They're honest about what they are. About what they want. About the cruelty of their ownership.
I'm lying. To Eden. To myself. To everyone.
Telling her she has choices while engineering every decision.
Telling her I'm helping her heal while preparing her for a gathering where she'll be expected to demonstrate her submission to an audience of predators.
Telling her she's safe with me while knowing that in three weeks, I'll either have to expose her to the Consortium or burn every bridge I have with the organization that could destroy my business and reputation with a few well-placed phone calls.
I drain the scotch.
Make another decision.
Three weeks is a long time.
A lot can happen in three weeks.
Maybe I can make Eden understand before then.
Maybe I can prepare her without breaking her.
Maybe I can find a way to satisfy the Consortium's expectations without completely destroying the fragile trust we're building.
Or maybe I'll have to choose.
Between the inner circle and Eden.
Between power and... whatever this is becoming.
But that's a problem for future Vaughn.
Right now, I have three days to get through.
Three days before I offer to touch her again.
Three days to be patient while Victor's deadline looms in the background.
I can do this.
I have to.
Morning comes too soon.
I'm in the kitchen by seven-thirty, coffee in hand, newspaper open, trying to look casual and composed instead of exhausted and wired from lack of sleep.
Trying not to think about last night.
About the phone call.
About what happens in three weeks.
Trying to focus on the three days ahead and what they might bring.
Mrs. Silva gives me a knowing look as she sets down my breakfast. "You look tired, Mr. Sutherland."
"Didn't sleep well."
"Perhaps you should rest today instead of working. You've been pushing yourself quite hard lately."
"Perhaps."
But I won't.
Because Eden will be down soon, and I need to see her face.
Need to know if she regrets what happened.
Need to gauge where we stand after a night of processing.
Need to see if curiosity is already building.
Seven forty-five. Seven fifty. Seven fifty-five.
She's usually down by now, punctual almost to the minute.
Maybe she's not coming.
Maybe she's too embarrassed.
Maybe last night broke something between us that can't be repaired.
Maybe she's lying in that bed hating herself, hating me, hating what she allowed to happen. Maybe—
The kitchen door opens.
Eden walks in, and I have to force myself not to react visibly.
She looks exhausted.
Dark shadows under her eyes like bruises.
Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail instead of the neat style she usually favors.
She's wearing jeans and a sweater from the closet I had stocked—the cream-colored cashmere that makes her skin look luminous even when she's clearly sleep-deprived.
She didn't sleep any better than I did.
But there's something else too.
Something different that makes my pulse quicken.
She's not as tightly wound as usual.
Her shoulders aren't hunched defensively.