Chapter 9 #4
Keeps moving his fingers, his thumb, prolonging the pleasure until it borders on pain, until I'm shaking and gasping and begging—
"Please—please stop—Vaughn—too much—can't—"
Only then does he stop.
Withdraws his hand slowly, carefully.
I lie there trembling, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to piece together thoughts from the scattered fragments in my brain.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come. When you stop fighting and just let yourself feel."
I should feel ashamed.
Should hate myself for responding, for coming, for giving him what he wanted, for proving his point so completely.
But all I feel is empty.
Hollowed out.
Wrung dry.
Like something inside me broke and I don't know how to fix it, don't know if I even want to fix it.
Tears slide down my temples, hot tracks against cooling skin.
Vaughn sees them immediately.
Wipes them away with fingers still wet from being inside me.
"Shh. You're okay. You're safe. I've got you."
"I hate you," I whisper, and it comes out broken.
"I know."
"I hate that I want this. Hate what you're doing to me."
"I know that too."
He gathers me against him before I can argue and pulls me into his arms, skin against skin.
He pulls the blanket over both of us.
I should push him away, should force some barrier, some piece of myself that remains untouched.
But I'm so tired.
So confused.
So completely overwhelmed by everything that's happened.
By the running and the fear and the cold and being found and dragged back and this—whatever this is.
I let him hold me.
Let him stroke my hair with gentle fingers.
Let him whisper things I don't want to hear about how I'm safe, how I'm his, how everything is going to be okay, how I just need to stop fighting what we both know is inevitable.
Even though nothing is okay.
Even though everything has changed.
Even though I just gave him exactly what he wanted and proved I'm exactly as weak as he thinks I am.
"Sleep," he says softly.
"I can't sleep with you. Can't stay here."
"Yes, you can. And you will. Every night from now on. This is where you sleep now. In my bed. In my arms. Where I can keep you safe and warm and make sure you don't get any more ideas about running."
"I will run. First chance I get, I'll run again."
"No, you won't."
"You can't watch me every second."
"I don't need to. Because you're starting to understand something, whether you want to admit it or not."
"What?"
"That running hurts more than surrendering. That fighting what you want only makes it worse. That your body has already chosen, even if your mind is still catching up."
The words hit too close to something I don't want to acknowledge.
Because he's right.
Running got me fleeting freedom and a lifetime of knowing I can't escape.
Can't get away from him, can't get away from what he makes me feel, can't get away from my own traitorous body.
Surrendering got me pleasure and warmth and safety and the slow, creeping realization that maybe I don't want to escape anymore.
Maybe I never did.
Maybe I just wanted him to prove I couldn't.
Wanted him to catch me.
Wanted him to show me that resistance is futile so I could stop fighting and just give in.
The thought makes me want to cry again.
"Sleep," he says again, more firmly this time. "We'll talk more in the morning. About the showcase. About what happens next. About the choice you need to make."
"What choice?"
His hand continues stroking my hair in soothing motions. "Train with me willingly for the showcase—let me teach you what you need to know, let me prepare you, let me make this as easy as possible—or I make every decision for you until you break. Until you have no choice but to submit."
"That's not a choice. That's coercion."
"It's the only choice you get. The only one I'm giving you. Everything else? That's mine now. Your room, your privacy, your body, your pleasure—all of it belongs to me. This is the last choice you'll have. So think carefully."
He's quiet for a moment. "Think about it tonight while you sleep. Tomorrow morning, you decide. But Eden—whatever you choose, understand this: you're not leaving. You're not running again. You're mine, and the sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."
I don't respond.
Can't respond.
Because deep down, in a place I don't want to acknowledge, in a place I've been trying to ignore since that first night when he showed me what pleasure felt like—
I'm starting to understand what he means.
I'm starting to forget why I wanted to leave.
Starting to accept that maybe this cage isn't a cage at all.
Maybe it's just where I belong.
Where I've always belonged.
Where some broken part of me has been trying to get to since I ran from the Sanctuary.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, it just makes me more tired.
So tired I can barely keep my eyes open.
I close them.
And in Vaughn's arms, in his bed, wrapped in his scent and his warmth and his complete and utter control—
I sleep.
Like I belong there.
Like I've finally come home.