Chapter 6 #3
The constant wariness is still there—that's not going away anytime soon—but underneath it, there's something new.
Color.
Her cheeks are flushed.
Just slightly, but enough that I know she's thinking about last night.
Remembering.
Maybe even wanting more.
"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice neutral, casual, giving nothing away.
"Morning," she mumbles, still not meeting my eyes directly.
She takes her usual seat across from me, wraps her hands around the coffee mug Mrs. Silva sets in front of her with motherly concern.
Her hands shake slightly.
Just a tremor, but I notice everything about her now.
Can't help it.
We eat in silence for several minutes, but it's different from the silences of the past week.
This one is charged.
Electric.
Heavy with everything we're not saying, with the memory of her body arching beneath my hands, with the sound of her gasping my name.
I can feel the questions building in her.
Can sense her working up the courage to speak, to break the silence that's becoming unbearable.
I wait. Patiently.
Finally, she sets down her fork with a soft click against the plate.
"Can I ask you something?" Her voice is quiet but steady, braver than I expected.
"Of course."
"Last night..." She stops. Swallows hard. Starts again. "Was it real?"
The question surprises me.
Of all the things I expected her to ask, this wasn't it. "Was what real?"
"What I felt. The—the pleasure." Her face burns brighter. "Was it real or was I just... I don't know. Imagining it? Wanting it to be real so badly that I convinced myself it was? Because the Sanctuary always said—"
"It was real, Eden." I set down my coffee, giving her my full attention. "Every second of it. Your body's response was completely genuine. That's what pleasure feels like. That's what you've been denied your whole life. That's what they stole from you with their lies."
"But the Sanctuary said pleasure was—"
"The Sanctuary lied. About everything. About your body. About desire. About what you're capable of feeling. All of it was lies designed to control you, to make you small, to convince you that your only value was in submission and childbearing."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing, her fingers tracing patterns on the coffee mug.
"And—" She stops. Takes a breath. Forces the words out. "Will it happen again?"
There it is.
The question I've been waiting for.
The question that tells me everything I need to know about where her mind has been all night.
I set down my newspaper, meet her eyes directly, holding her gaze until she can't look away.
"Whenever you want, Eden. You just have to ask."
Her breath catches audibly. "Ask?"
"Yes. I'm not going to push. Not going to demand. Not going to show up uninvited at your door in the middle of the night. But if you want to explore more, if you want to understand what else your body can do, if you're curious about what other sensations are possible—all you have to do is ask."
"That's it? I just ask and you'll—"
"I'll show you. Yes. On your terms. At your pace. You control when and how and what we do."
She's staring at me like I've spoken a foreign language, like the concept of having control over her own pleasure is so alien she can't process it.
"You're giving me control," she says slowly, testing the words. "Over when. Over if."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because that's the only way this works. You have to choose it. Have to want it. Otherwise it's just another man taking from you, and you've had enough of that for one lifetime."
"But you're still taking. You're still keeping me here. Still controlling my life. How is this different?"
Fair question. Uncomfortably fair.
"Because within these walls," I say carefully, "you have choices.
Limited ones, yes, constrained by circumstances neither of us can change right now.
But choices nonetheless. And one of those choices is whether you want me to show you more about pleasure.
About your body. About what you're capable of feeling when fear doesn't control you. "
"And if I never ask?"
The question makes my chest tighten, but I keep my expression neutral.
"Then we continue as we have been. Breakfast. Dinner. You read in the library. I work in my office. Nothing changes except now you know what's possible. Now you know what your body can do."
"You'd really be okay with that?"
No. Absolutely not.
I'd go completely insane.
Would spend every waking moment thinking about what could have been, about the pleasure I could give her, about watching her discover herself.
But I can't tell her that.
Can't reveal how much power she already has over me.
"I'd be disappointed," I say instead, which is the understatement of the century. "But I'd respect your decision. Your body, your choice. Always."
She studies my face for a long moment, those intelligent hazel eyes searching for the lie, for the catch, for the trap.
She won't find it.
Because the trap isn't in what I'm saying.
The trap is in the curiosity I've awakened.
The trap is in her body now knowing what pleasure feels like.
The trap is in the three days of space I'm about to give her, during which that curiosity will build and build until she can't stand it anymore.
She picks up her coffee, takes a sip, and sets it down.
"I need to think about it," she says finally.
"Take all the time you need."
"How much time is 'all the time'?"
"As much as you want. A day. A week. A month. Whenever you're ready."
Or three days, I think but don't say.
Three days before I start subtly showing her what she's missing.
Before I remind her how good it felt.
Before curiosity overcomes fear.
But I don't say that.
Just let her think she has all the control.
Let her think this is entirely her choice.
Even though we both know—or at least I know—that I'm guiding every step, creating the conditions for her to choose exactly what I want her to choose.
She finishes her breakfast in silence, her mind clearly elsewhere.
Stands.
"I'm going to the library," she says.
"Enjoy your reading."
She pauses at the door. Looks back over her shoulder.
"Vaughn."
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For making it my choice."
Then she's gone, leaving me alone with Mrs. Silva and the irony of her gratitude.
I sit there in the empty kitchen, her words echoing in my head.
Thank you for making it my choice.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't so fucked up.
Because it's not really her choice, is it?
I'm manipulating every aspect of this.
Creating the conditions.
Engineering the curiosity.
Making sure she wants what I'm offering while believing it's her own desire.
The cage isn't the house or the locks or the security system.
The cage is the illusion of choice.
And she's already inside it, walking deeper with every step, believing she's choosing freedom when really she's choosing exactly what I designed her to choose.
I check my watch. Eight-thirty.
Three days starts now.
Three days of giving her space.
Of letting the curiosity build.
Of watching on the cameras—because I will watch, I can't help myself—to see if she touches herself, if she uses that vibrator, if she thinks about what I showed her.
Three days before I start subtly reminding her what she's missing.
Three days until she asks.
Because she will ask.
I can see it in her eyes already.
The curiosity burning there.
The hunger she doesn't want to acknowledge.
The need to know if it would feel that good again, if pleasure is really possible, if her body can be trusted.
She doesn't want to ask. Doesn't want to admit she wants more. Doesn't want to give me the satisfaction.
But she will.
It's just a matter of time.
And patience has always been my greatest weapon.
Three days.
I can wait three days.
Even if it kills me.
Even with Victor's deadline looming three weeks away.
Even knowing that eventually I'll have to choose between the Consortium and whatever this is becoming with Eden.
But that's a problem for future Vaughn.
Right now, I just need to make it through three days.
Three days of patience.
Three days of control.
Three days until she asks for more.
And then I'll show her everything.