Chapter 7 #2
I dress carefully, my hands shaking slightly as I pull on jeans and a sweater.
The cream cashmere that's soft and comfortable and makes me feel less vulnerable somehow.
Pull my hair back into a ponytail.
Try to look normal, composed, like I'm not about to beg the man who bought me at an auction to touch me again.
Like I'm not about to cross a line I can never uncross.
Downstairs, the kitchen smells like coffee and something baking—Mrs. Silva's doing, probably.
She's been kind to me these past ten days, in her quiet, professional way.
Never asking questions. Never judging.
Just providing meals and clean towels and a motherly presence that I didn't know I needed.
Vaughn is already there.
Same as every morning.
Coffee and newspaper, perfectly put together in dark slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms.
Composed. Controlled. Giving absolutely nothing away.
Does he know what I'm going to say?
Has he been waiting for this moment?
Planning for it?
Is he smug about winning, about breaking down my resistance?
I can't tell.
His face is unreadable as I take my seat across from him, as Mrs. Silva sets coffee in front of me with a gentle smile.
"Good morning, Eden."
His voice is the same as always.
Calm. Measured. Revealing nothing.
"Morning," I manage.
I wrap my hands around the mug, using the warmth to steady myself, to ground myself in something real and solid when everything inside me feels like it's trembling.
We eat in silence for several minutes.
Eggs and toast that I can barely taste.
Coffee that I drink too fast, burning my tongue.
The tension builds with every second that passes.
Every time I try to speak, the words stick in my throat.
How do you ask for this?
How do you tell someone you need them to show you pleasure when you're supposed to hate them?
When they bought you like property?
When every sane part of you is screaming that this is wrong, that you're making a terrible mistake, that you'll regret this?
Finally, I can't stand it anymore.
I set down my fork with a clatter that sounds too loud in the quiet kitchen.
"You asked me to tell you when I was ready," I say.
The words come out steadier than I expected, clearer.
Like some part of me has already accepted this and moved past the fear.
Vaughn looks up from his newspaper slowly.
Deliberately.
Those ice-blue eyes lock on mine, and I feel pinned under their intensity.
"Yes," he says simply.
"I'm ready."
The words hang between us in the air, heavy with implications.
With surrender. With admission.
With want.
He sets down the newspaper carefully, every movement controlled and gives me his full, undivided attention.
"Are you sure?"
The question is gentle.
Careful.
Like he's giving me one last chance to back out, to change my mind, to run.
"Yes." I take a breath. Force myself to say the rest, to be completely honest even though it costs me. "But I hate that I want this."
Something flickers in his eyes.
Not triumph—I was expecting triumph.
Something more complex.
Something that looks almost like understanding, like respect.
"Good," he says quietly. "Hate me all you want, Eden. Just don't lie to yourself about what your body needs."
The words should make me angry.
Should make me want to take it back, to prove him wrong, to demonstrate that I'm stronger than this wanting.
Instead, they make something in my chest loosen.
Because he's right.
I do need this.
My body needs this.
And lying about it, pretending I don't want what I clearly do, won't change that fundamental truth.
Won't make the wanting go away.
Won't give me back the innocence or ignorance I had before he showed me what pleasure felt like.
"Tonight," he continues, his voice still calm, still measured. "After dinner. Come to my room when you're ready."
My heart jumps, slamming against my ribs. "Your room?"
"Unless you'd prefer yours. But I thought—a change of scenery might help. Make it feel less like repeating what happened before. More like something new. Something you're choosing."
Something new.
Something I'm choosing.
Like this is a progression, a natural next step.
Like we're moving forward together instead of him just doing things to me, showing me things, teaching me things.
Like I have agency in this.
The thought is terrifying.
And thrilling.
And probably a complete lie I'm telling myself to make this feel less like surrender.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Okay?"
"Your room. Tonight. I'll—I'll come to you."
Saying it out loud makes it real.
Makes it a promise I can't take back.
He nods once. "No pressure. If you change your mind—"
"I won't."
"But if you do, that's fine. The door isn't locked. You can leave whenever you want. This only happens if you want it to happen."
Can I, though?
Can I really leave when my body is screaming for what he's offering?
When curiosity is eating me alive?
When I'm already half lost to this thing between us that I don't have a name for?
When three days of wanting have already proven I can't resist?
I don't say any of that.
Just nod and go back to my breakfast, forcing myself to eat even though my stomach is in knots.
But my hands are shaking badly enough that I have to set down my coffee cup before I spill it.
And I can feel his eyes on me.
Watching. Assessing.
Reading every micro-expression, every tremor, every sign of the war happening inside me.
Knowing he's won.
Knowing I'm his now, even if I won't admit it.
Knowing that tonight, he'll have even more of me.
And there's nothing I can do to stop it.
Nothing I even want to do to stop it.
That's the worst part.
The rest of the day drags like time has turned to molasses.
I try to read in the library.
Pick up Jane Eyre from where I left off days ago, but the words blur together, meaningless black marks on white pages.
I read the same paragraph five times and still can't tell you what it says.
All I can think about is tonight.
What he'll show me.
What it will feel like.
Whether it will be even more intense than last time, if that's even possible.
Whether I'll lose more of myself in the process, give up more pieces of who I used to be.
Whether I care anymore.
Whether I ever really cared or if I was just pretending, playing a role, being the good Sanctuary girl who resisted temptation when really I wanted to fall all along.
I set the book aside, stand, and pace the length of the library.
The books Vaughn chose for me are still on the nightstand in my room.
The ones about sexuality, about pleasure, about women reclaiming their bodies from purity culture.
I've read them both cover to cover.
Some passages multiple times.
They talk about agency.
About choice.
About how understanding your body is empowering, how pleasure is your birthright, how no one gets to tell you what you should or shouldn't want.
But is it really a choice when your body has been conditioned to respond to one specific person?
When you've been isolated and manipulated and carefully shown pleasure in a way that makes you dependent?
Or is it just a prettier cage?
I don't know anymore.
Don't know if the difference even matters when the end result is the same—me, wanting Vaughn, needing what only he can give.
Around four in the afternoon, I can't stand being in the library anymore.
Can't stand sitting still when my mind is racing and my body is humming.
I wander out into the hallway, down corridors I haven't fully explored before.
Past guest rooms that are beautifully furnished but empty.
Past a formal dining room that looks like it's never been used.
Past storage closets and a powder room and doors that lead to parts of the house I haven't seen.
I find myself standing in front of a door I recognize.
Vaughn's office.
I've never been inside.
He's never invited me in, never shown me this space that's clearly his private domain.
The door is open, just slightly.
Just enough to see inside to the masculine, expensive space beyond.
I should walk past.
Should go back to the library or my room or anywhere else.
Should mind my own business and respect boundaries and not snoop, but something pulls me forward.
That same curiosity that got me into this mess in the first place.
The need to know, to understand, to see what's hidden.
I push the door open wider and step inside.
The office is exactly what I'd expect from Vaughn.
Masculine. Expensive. Controlled.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line two walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and business texts and—
I move closer, reading the spines.
Books on sexuality.
On trauma recovery.
On religious deprogramming.
On helping purity culture survivors reclaim their sexuality.
The spines are well-worn, like he's read them multiple times.
Bookmarks stick out from various pages.
Notes in the margins in handwriting I recognize as his.
Research.
He researched how to do this to me.
How to break down my walls.
How to make me want him.
How to turn my own body against me.
How to help me, maybe, in his own twisted way.
The thought should make me angry.
Should feel like violation, like manipulation, like proof that this was all calculated from the beginning.
Instead, it just makes me sad.
Because some part of me—some stupid, naive part—wanted to believe he was different.
That this was about more than control or ownership or training me to be his perfect acquisition.
That maybe he actually cared about me as a person, not just as property.
That maybe the patience and the careful questions and the way he looked at me meant something real.
I turn away from the bookshelves.
On his desk, there's a laptop.
Closed.
A stack of papers—business documents, probably.
An expensive pen and an envelope.
Cream-colored. Heavy paper stock.
My fingers brush against it before I can think better of it, before I can tell myself to leave, to get out, to stop invading his privacy.
It's not sealed.