Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Eden
"Strip."
The word hangs in the air between us like a threat.
Like a promise.
Like the beginning of something I can't come back from.
I stare at Vaughn, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in every nerve of my body that's screaming at me to run even though there's nowhere left to run to.
Even though he just dragged me back from the woods.
Even though the hunt is over and he won.
His bedroom is massive.
Overwhelming in its masculine opulence.
Dark wood furniture that looks hand-carved and probably costs more than most people make in a year.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showing nothing but forest and darkness beyond—a view that would be beautiful if it didn't remind me how isolated we are, how far from help, how completely alone I am with him.
A bed that could fit four people dominates the space.
King-sized at minimum, maybe bigger.
Dark gray sheets that look like they cost a fortune.
Pillows arranged with precision.
Everything is expensive, controlled, and perfect.
Just like him.
Except right now, he doesn't look controlled at all.
He looks dangerous.
Ice-blue eyes darker than I've ever seen them, almost navy in the low light.
Jaw tight with tension he's barely containing.
Hands clenched at his sides like he's forcing himself not to reach for me, not to cross the space between us and take what he wants.
The careful, patient man from breakfast this morning is gone.
This is someone else.
Someone rawer.
Someone who's done pretending.
"I said strip, Eden."
His voice is cold.
Final.
The voice of a man who's done being patient, done giving choices, done pretending this is anything other than what it is.
Ownership.
"Vaughn, please—" My voice comes out smaller than I intend. Weaker. "Can't I just—can we talk about this?"
"No. We're done talking. You talked with your actions when you ran. Now I'm responding with mine. Strip. Now."
My hands are shaking as I reach for the hem of my sweater.
The cashmere that was so soft this morning now feels rough and uncomfortable.
It's damp from crossing the creek during my escape attempt, clinging to my skin in a way that makes me feel claustrophobic.
I peel it off slowly, my movements jerky and uncoordinated from cold, fear, and exhaustion.
I let it fall to the floor.
I'm wearing just a bra now.
Plain, white, nothing special.
And jeans that are soaked through below the knees, heavy with creek water, making my legs ache.
I wrap my arms around myself.
Try to maintain some dignity, some protection, some barrier between his gaze and my body.
"All of it," he says.
"I'm cold."
"I know you're cold. That's why you need dry clothes and warmth. So take off the wet things. Now."
"Can't you just—can't I go to my room and change there? Please?"
"You don't have a room anymore."
The words hit like a physical slap.
Like he reached across the space and struck me.
"What?"
"Your things will be moved here within the hour. To my room. You'll sleep here from now on. In my bed. Where I can see you. Where I can make sure you don't get any more ideas about running."
"No. Vaughn, no, you can't—"
"I can and I fucking will. You proved tonight that you can't be trusted with freedom. Can't be trusted with choices. Can't be trusted with anything except what I give you. So now you get none of it. No more guest room. No more privacy. No more illusion of independence."
Tears burn behind my eyes. Hot, angry, and desperate. "Please. Please don't do this."
"Strip. Or I do it for you. Your choice. Though we both know you don't really have choices anymore, do you?"
I reach for my jeans with shaking hands that can barely work the button.
It unfastens after three tries, and I peel the wet denim down my legs in an awkward, ungraceful motion that makes me feel even more vulnerable.
The jeans are difficult to remove—the fabric clings to my skin, heavy with water, resisting every tug.
I finally get them off and kick them aside.
I stand here in just my underwear, plain white cotton.
Nothing sexy or alluring.
Just practical undergarments that feel completely inadequate now.
My arms are wrapped around myself, and I’m shivering violently.
From cold. From fear.
From the knowledge that everything just changed and there's no going back to the careful dance we were doing before, the pretense that I had any power in this dynamic.
Vaughn's eyes travel over me slowly.
Deliberately.
Not with lust exactly—though that's there too, unmistakable in the way his gaze lingers on my breasts, my hips, my thighs.
But more than that.
With possession.
With the look of a man examining property he owns.
Cataloging what belongs to him.
Making an inventory of his acquisition.
"Bra too."
"Vaughn—"
"Now, Eden. Don't make me repeat myself. I won't ask again. The next time I have to tell you to do something, there will be consequences you won't like."
I reach behind me with numb fingers and unhook my bra with hands that barely work, fumbling with the clasp.
Letting it fall to join the rest of my clothes on the floor.
I stand here topless, my arms still wrapped around myself in a futile attempt at modesty, trying to maintain some shred of dignity even though we both know it's pointless.
Even though he's seen more of me than this.
Even though his hands have been on my body, have made me feel things, have pulled pleasure from me that I didn't know existed.
But this feels different.
More exposed. More vulnerable. More like surrender.
"Arms down," he says quietly.
"No."
He moves so fast I don't have time to react.
Don't have time to step back or put up my hands or do anything except gasp.
He crosses the space between us in two strides and takes my wrists in his hands—not roughly, but firmly, with undeniable strength—and pulls my arms to my sides.
Forces me to be exposed.
To be seen. To stop hiding.
"When I tell you to do something, you do it. Immediately. Without question. Without hesitation. Do you understand?"
I don't answer.
How can I answer?
My throat has closed up with fear or anger or something else I don't want to name.
His grip on my wrists tightens.
Still not painful, but firm enough that I can feel his strength.
Firm enough that I know I couldn't break free even if I tried.
"Do you understand?" he repeats.
"Yes," I whisper.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I understand."
"Good girl."
The praise shouldn't make my stomach flip.
It shouldn't send that traitorous warmth spreading through my chest, shouldn't make some small part of me preen at his approval.
But it does, and I hate myself for it.
Hate that even now, even terrified and exposed and completely at his mercy, some part of me still wants to please him.
Still craves his approval like oxygen.
He releases my wrists and steps back.
He studies me with that intense gaze that makes me feel like he can see straight through my skin to every thought, every fear, and every secret desire I'm trying to hide.
I'm standing there in just my underwear now.
Soaking wet from the waist down.
Shivering violently. Completely vulnerable.
And he's fully clothed.
Still in the same clothes from when he found me in the woods.
Completely in control.
Utterly calm despite the darkness in his eyes.
The power imbalance is overwhelming.
"I'm going to run you a bath," he says.
The words don't make sense. They don't fit with what I was expecting. "What?"
"You're hypothermic. Your core temperature is too low. You need to warm up slowly and carefully. A lukewarm bath is the safest way to do that without shocking your system."
"I don't—I thought you were going to—"
"Punish you?" He tilts his head slightly, studying me. "I am punishing you. But not the way you're thinking. Not the way you're afraid of."
He disappears into the ensuite bathroom.
I hear water running.
The sound of it echoing off tile.
I stand there, frozen in place.
Too cold and scared and confused to move.
Too overwhelmed to process what's happening.
This isn't what I expected at all.
I expected him to hurt me, to finally show me the monster I've always known was underneath the patient facade he's been wearing.
Expected pain as payment for running, for defying him, for trying to escape.
Not this. Not care. Not gentleness. Not a fucking bath.
He returns, standing in the doorway. "Come."
It's not a request. It's a command.
I follow because what choice do I have?
What power do I possess to refuse him?
None.
The answer is none.
The bathroom is as luxurious as the bedroom.
Marble everywhere—floors, walls, countertops.
A tub that's more like a small pool, easily big enough for two people.
Steam is already rising from the water, fogging the mirror.
Everything is expensive.
Perfect. Controlled.
"Get in," he says.
I hesitate at the edge of the tub.
The water looks too hot.
Steam rising from it in thick clouds.
"Eden. Get in the bath or I'll put you in it myself."
I step out of my underwear, the last barrier between me and complete nudity.
Completely naked now in front of him for the first time.
Completely exposed in a way that makes me want to cover myself with my hands, to hide, to disappear.
But I don't.
Because he told me to put my arms down and I'm too afraid of the consequences to disobey.
I step into the tub.
The water is warm, and it makes my cold skin scream.
I gasp at the sudden sensation, my body not sure whether it's pleasure or pain.
"It's too hot," I say, my teeth chattering.
"Your body temperature is dangerously low. The water isn’t too warm, Eden, I promise you. Sit down before you go into shock."
I lower myself into the water slowly, inch by painful inch.
It feels like fire against my skin.
Like I'm being burned alive from the outside in.
But gradually, so gradually, the pain fades.
Transforms into something that feels almost good.
Almost comforting.