Chapter 10 #2
Mrs. Silva pats her shoulder maternally and leaves us alone, disappearing into the kitchen to give us privacy.
I set down my newspaper, fold it precisely. "We need to discuss your decision."
"What decision?" Eden's voice is carefully neutral.
"The one I gave you last night. Train with me willingly for the showcase, or I make every choice for you until you break. You need to choose. Now."
She stares at her coffee cup like it holds answers. "That's not a real choice."
"It's the only choice you have. The only one I'm giving you. Everything else is already decided."
"What if I refuse both options? What if I just... don't cooperate at all? What if I fight you every step?"
"Then I'll make you cooperate. And you won't enjoy the process nearly as much as you would if you chose to submit willingly. I can be patient, Eden. Or I can be brutal. Your choice."
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup in nervous circles.
Around and around, endless loops like she's trying to find a way out that doesn't exist.
"What does the training involve?" she asks finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Teaching you what the Consortium expects. How to behave in front of them. How to respond to me. How to demonstrate clearly and without doubt that you're mine, that you belong to me completely, that you're well-trained and obedient."
"An audience." She closes her eyes, and I can see her processing the reality of it. "I have to perform. In front of other men. Other couples. Like an animal at a show."
"Not like an animal. Like a woman who belongs to someone. Like an acquisition that reflects well on her owner. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm sitting."
"Eden." I wait until she looks at me, until those haunted eyes meet mine.
"I know this isn't what you want. I know you'd rather run again if you thought you could get away, rather die in those woods than submit to this.
But you can't run. You can't escape. So, the question is: do you want to learn this from me, with patience and care and preparation?
Or do you want me to force it, to break you down until you have no choice but to comply?
Because either way, you're going to that showcase.
Either way, you're going to perform. The only variable is how traumatic the process is. "
She studies my face for a long moment, looking for the lie, the trap, the hidden cruelty beneath the reasonable words.
She won't find it.
Because I'm being completely honest.
This is the most honest I've been with her since the moment I saw her on that auction stage.
"If I agree," she says slowly, testing each word, "if I train with you willingly... what does that look like? What exactly are you going to make me do?"
"It means you follow my instructions without resistance. You practice what I teach you. You trust that I'm preparing you for this in the least traumatic way possible. I'll push you, yes. I'll make you uncomfortable. But I won't break you more than necessary."
"And if I don't do it right? If I can't perform the way you want?"
"Then we practice until you can. I have three weeks, Eden. Twenty-one days. That's more than enough time to teach you everything you need to know. To condition your body and mind to respond the way the Consortium expects."
She takes a shaky breath, and I can see her hands trembling around the coffee cup. "And if I say no? If I refuse to cooperate at all?"
"Then I'll make every decision for you. What you eat, what you wear, when you sleep, when you speak, when you breathe.
I'll control every single aspect of your existence until the showcase.
And when we get there, you'll perform anyway.
It will just be harder for you. More frightening.
More overwhelming. You'll go in unprepared and terrified instead of trained and confident. "
The threat hangs between us like a blade.
She knows I'm not bluffing.
Knows I'll do exactly what I'm threatening.
Has already seen what I'm capable of when she ran.
"So, I can choose to suffer through training," she says bitterly, her voice sharp with anger and resignation, "or suffer through being completely controlled. Those are my options. Submit or be broken."
"Yes."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. It's a hollow, broken sound that echoes in the too-large dining room. "You're a monster."
"Perhaps. But I'm a monster who's offering you a path through this that doesn't destroy you completely. That leaves you with some sense of self when it's over. I suggest you take it."
Another long silence.
I can see her weighing the options, calculating which path causes less damage.
Which choice leaves her with more of herself intact.
Then, so quietly I almost don't hear it: "Fine."
"Fine, what?"
"Fine. I'll..." She swallows hard. "I'll train with you. Willingly." The word tastes like poison in her mouth, like ash and defeat.
Relief floods through me, sharp and immediate.
Mixed with triumph, with satisfaction.
With the knowledge that I've won this round, that she's chosen the path I wanted her to choose.
She chose submission.
Chose me.
Chose to make this easier on both of us.
Even if she hates it.
Even if it's killing her.
Even if every word cost her a piece of her soul.
She chose.
"Good girl," I say softly, and I watch the way those two words affect her.
The flinch.
The flush.
The way her breath catches involuntarily.
She hates that it affects her.
Hates that my approval matters even when she's trying so hard not to care.
Perfect.
"Finish your breakfast," I say, my tone businesslike now. "We start in an hour."
I take her to the library.
It's the right choice.
Private enough that we won't be interrupted.
Comfortable enough that she won't feel immediately threatened.
A space she already associates with safety and learning, with the books I gave her about sexuality and pleasure.
That will make this easier.
Make her more receptive to what comes next.
She stands in the middle of the room between the leather sofas, arms wrapped around herself defensively.
Every line of her body screaming resistance even though she just agreed to cooperate.
"What now?" she asks.
"Now I teach you the basics. The foundation that everything else builds on."
"Which is?"
"Obedience."
She stiffens immediately, her whole body going rigid. "I'm not a dog."
"No. You're a woman who belongs to me. And at the showcase, you need to demonstrate that clearly and without any doubt. Without hesitation. Without visible resistance. So, we start with simple commands. Building the habit of compliance. Building your body's automatic response to my voice."
"This is insane."
"Perhaps. But it's happening anyway. And the more you fight it, the harder it will be. For both of us." I move closer, not crowding her but close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. "The first command is the easiest. Come here."
She doesn't move. Just stares at me with those defiant eyes.
"Eden. Come here."
"I'm already here."
"You're five feet away from me. I said come here. That means close enough to touch. Close enough that there's no space between us. Now."
She takes a reluctant step forward, moving like she's walking toward her execution.
Then another.
She stops when there's maybe a foot of space between us.
"Closer."
"Vaughn—"
"Closer. Close enough that I can feel your breath. Close enough that our bodies are almost touching."
She takes another step, and now we're almost making contact.
Her chest nearly brushes mine with each inhale.
I can smell her shampoo, something sweet.
Vanilla mixed with cinnamon, maybe.
"Good," I say, letting approval color my voice. "That's what 'come here' means. Close enough to touch. Close enough that there's no distance, no barrier between us. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
She glares at me, jaw tight. "Yes, I understand."
"Good girl."
That phrase again.
I watch her reaction carefully, cataloging every detail.
The flinch, like the words are physically touching her.
The flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.
The way her breath catches ever so slightly, her pupils dilating just a fraction.
She hates that it affects her.
Hates that those two simple words—good girl—make something in her chest tighten with an emotion she doesn't want to name.
Make her want to please me even when she's trying so hard to maintain her resistance.
But they do.
And I'm going to use that ruthlessly over the next three weeks. Going to condition her to crave my approval, to need my praise, to do anything to hear those words.
"Next command," I say. "Kneel."
Her eyes go wide, genuine shock replacing the simmering anger. "What?"
"You heard me. Kneel."
"Absolutely not."
"Eden. This is training. This is what you agreed to not twenty minutes ago. Kneel."
"No. That's—that's too submissive. Too—"
"That's exactly the point. At the showcase, you may be asked to kneel for me. To demonstrate your submission to me in front of the entire Consortium. So, you need to learn how to do it gracefully, without hesitation, without making it look like you're being forced. Kneel."
She stands frozen, every muscle in her body screaming resistance.
I can see the war playing out in her eyes—the urge to refuse battling against the knowledge that refusal will only make things worse.
"The longer you fight this, the harder it will be," I say quietly, keeping my voice calm and reasonable. "Every second you stand here resisting is a second wasted. Kneel. Now."
Slowly—so painfully slowly—she lowers herself to her knees.
It's clumsy. Graceless.
She doesn't know how to do this, has never done it before.
Never learned how to kneel for anyone, how to make her body into a posture of submission.
But she does it.
She kneels in front of me on the library floor, hands clenched into fists at her sides, head bowed, shoulders rigid with tension and barely suppressed fury.