Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Vaughn
I wake up before Eden does.
It's habit, I suppose.
Years of early mornings, of discipline, of controlling every aspect of my life, including my sleep schedule.
Five-thirty in the morning, like clockwork, regardless of what happened the night before.
And last night—
Last night changed everything.
The early morning light filters through the windows, casting everything in shades of gray and gold.
Dawn breaking over the estate.
Over the forest where I hunted her down just hours ago.
Over the new reality we're both waking up to.
Eden is curled against me, her body instinctively seeking warmth even in sleep.
One arm thrown across my chest, fingers curled loosely against my ribs.
Her face pressed against my shoulder, breath warm against my skin.
Hair spilled across the pillow like dark silk, tangled from sleep and from what I did to her last night.
She looks peaceful.
Younger than her twenty-three years.
Vulnerable in a way she never allows herself to be when awake, when she's watching me with those wary eyes, calculating her next move.
I should feel guilty.
The thought crosses my mind with clinical detachment.
I should feel something resembling remorse for what I did to her last night.
For breaking her down piece by piece.
For using her own body against her, weaponizing her pleasure.
For making her come so hard she cried, for reducing her to trembling desperation in my arms.
I don't.
I feel satisfied. Triumphant.
Like a man who's finally claimed what's rightfully his after a long, arduous hunt.
Like a predator who's successfully brought down his prey and can finally feast.
She's mine now. Completely. In every way that matters.
Her things were moved to my room while she slept.
I'd given Callum the order before we even got back to the estate.
By the time Eden passed out in my arms, exhausted from emotion and orgasm and the sheer weight of everything that had happened, her guest room was being systematically emptied.
Her clothes now hang in my closet, taking up a section I cleared for her.
Her books sit on my nightstand, stacked neatly beside my own reading.
Her toiletries are in my bathroom.
Every trace of her was removed from that guest room and relocated here.
Where she belongs.
Where she'll stay.
I study her face in the growing light.
The dark lashes against her cheeks.
The slight parting of her lips.
The way her brow furrows slightly even in sleep, like she's troubled by her dreams.
Is she dreaming about last night?
About my hands on her body?
About the way I made her come?
Or is she dreaming about the Sanctuary?
About Elder Jacob?
About all the things she ran from?
She stirs against me, disturbing my thoughts.
A soft sound escapes her throat—not quite a moan, not quite a whimper.
Something in between that makes my cock twitch with interest despite having had her just hours ago.
I wonder if she's dreaming about pleasure now.
If her subconscious is replaying the sensations.
If her body is remembering how it felt to surrender completely, to let go of control and just feel.
Her eyes flutter open slowly, the process gradual.
Confusion first—where am I, why am I warm, why does everything feel different.
Then awareness dawning as she registers my body next to hers, my arm around her waist.
Then something that looks almost like resignation settling over her features.
Like she's accepting a truth she can't change.
"Good morning," I say quietly, keeping my voice low and calm. Non-threatening despite what we both know I'm capable of.
She tenses immediately.
Every muscle is rigid against me.
She tries to pull away, to put distance between us.
I tighten my arm around her waist, preventing her escape. "Don't."
"I need to—"
"Stay. Just for a moment."
She goes still but doesn't relax.
Like a deer frozen in headlights, knowing the predator is too close but not sure whether to run or submit.
Smart enough to know running didn't work last time.
"How do you feel?" I ask. It's a genuine question. I need to know if I pushed too hard last night, if I damaged something that will make the next three weeks more difficult.
"Sore."
"Anywhere specific?"
Her face flushes deep red, the color spreading down her neck. "You know where."
I do.
I was inside her with my fingers last night.
Two of them, stretching her virgin body, making her accommodate the intrusion even though she'd never felt anything like it before.
Preparing her, gradually, for what's eventually coming.
For when she finally begs me to fuck her properly.
And she will beg.
I'll make sure of it.
"That will fade," I say, keeping my tone matter-of-fact rather than apologetic. Because I'm not apologizing for any of it. "The more your body gets used to being touched, penetrated, stretched—the less it will hurt. Eventually, it will only feel good."
"I don't want my body to get used to it."
"Yes, you do. You just don't want to admit it yet. Don't want to acknowledge that you're curious about what comes next. What it will feel like when it's not just my fingers inside you."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing that.
I can practically hear her mind working, trying to find an argument that will convince us both that she doesn't want this.
She won't find one that's true.
"My things," she says finally, changing the subject. "They're gone from my room."
"They're here. Where they belong."
"You had no right—"
"I had every right. You're mine, Eden. Everything about you is mine now. Your room, your clothes, your body, your pleasure. All of it belongs to me. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
She closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath. "I hate you."
"You said that last night. Right after you came on my fingers and cried in my arms, and before you fell asleep against my chest like you belonged there."
The flush deepens, spreading down to her chest.
Beautiful.
She's so responsive, so easy to read.
Every emotion written clearly on her face, in the color of her skin, in the way her breath changes.
I'll have to teach her to control that before the showcase.
I can't have her broadcasting every feeling to the Consortium members watching.
They'll use it against her, against me.
But for now, I enjoy it.
Enjoy knowing exactly what she's feeling.
Enjoy watching the war between shame and arousal play out across her features.
"Get up," I say, releasing her finally. "Shower. Get dressed. Something comfortable—we have work to do today. I'll have Mrs. Silva prepare breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"You'll eat anyway. You barely touched dinner the night before you found that invitation and ran. And you spent three and a half hours running through the woods before that, burning energy you couldn't afford to lose. Your body needs fuel, Eden. I need you at full strength for what's coming."
She sits up slowly, wincing slightly at the movement.
The sheet falls away, revealing her naked body in the morning light streaming through the windows.
Perfect.
Every inch of her is absolutely perfect.
Pale skin that bruises easily—I'll have to be careful about that, can't have visible marks before the showcase unless they're intentional. Small breasts that fit perfectly in my hands. Narrow waist flaring to hips that will be perfect for gripping when I finally fuck her.
Long legs that will wrap around me beautifully.
Mine. All of it is mine now.
She reaches for the sheet to cover herself, that automatic modesty reasserting itself in the light of day.
"Don't," I say sharply.
"Vaughn—"
"I've seen every part of you. Touched every part of you. Made every part of you respond to me. Tasted you. Made you come apart. There's no point in modesty now. Your body belongs to me. I can look at it whenever I want."
She glares at me with those hazel eyes full of impotent fury, but she doesn't reach for the sheet again.
Good girl. Learning already.
She gets out of bed with as much dignity as she can muster, which isn't much given the circumstances.
Walks to the bathroom without looking back, her spine rigid with tension.
I watch her go.
Watch the way she moves.
The slight stiffness in her gait from last night.
The careful control she's exerting over her body, trying not to show weakness.
She's fighting it still.
Fighting the surrender.
Fighting the acceptance of what she's become, what she's becoming, but she's losing that fight.
And we both know it.
The question isn't whether she'll submit.
It's how long she'll keep pretending she has a choice.
Breakfast is tense.
The dining room feels too large, too formal for just the two of us.
Eden sits across from me in her usual spot, showered and dressed in jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her eyes look more green than brown.
Her hair is damp, pulled back in a simple ponytail.
No makeup.
Just clean skin and haunted eyes that won't quite meet mine directly.
She picks at her food with mechanical precision.
Takes small bites of eggs.
Nibbles at toast.
Drinks her coffee like it's the only thing keeping her upright, like the caffeine is the only reason she's functioning at all.
Mrs. Silva hovers near the sideboard, concerned. She's worked for me for thirty years and she's never seen me bring a woman home, never seen me with anyone long-term.
This situation must be confusing for her, though she's too professional to ask questions.
"Is everything all right, dear?" she asks Eden gently. "You're not eating much. Should I prepare something else? Perhaps some fruit or yogurt?"
"I'm fine," Eden says quietly, her voice flat. "Just tired."
"Of course. You had quite an ordeal yesterday. Running through those woods in the cold. I'm just glad Mr. Sutherland found you safe before anything terrible happened."
The irony of that statement isn't lost on either Eden or me.
Her jaw tightens but she doesn't respond, doesn't correct Mrs. Silva's assumption that being found was a good thing.