Chapter 11 #2
"I can't," I whisper, and this time the argument is genuine. Real terror bleeding through. "I can't do it. Can't perform in front of them. Can't—"
"Yes, you can. You've been doing incredibly well. Better than I expected, honestly. Your progress has been remarkable."
"That's not—" I stop. Breathe. Try again. "That's not a compliment. That just means I'm getting good at being—at being—"
"At being mine? At submitting? At accepting what you are?"
"At being broken," I finish, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.
He's quiet for a moment, studying me with that intense gaze that makes me feel like he can see straight through to my bones. "You're not broken. You're learning. There's a significant difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. Broken means destroyed beyond any possibility of repair. Shattered. Useless. You're not that. You're just—changing. Evolving. Becoming who you were always meant to be without the Sanctuary's lies controlling and limiting you."
"Or becoming exactly what you're making me into. What you're molding me to be."
"Both things can be true, Eden. They're not mutually exclusive."
I hate that phrase.
Hate how he uses it to justify everything.
Hate how it makes twisted, impossible sense even when it absolutely shouldn't.
"Finish your breakfast," he says, his tone shifting to that commanding edge I've learned means the discussion is over. "We start in twenty minutes."
The library has changed since yesterday.
Or maybe the changes were always there and I just didn't notice them through the fog of training and exhaustion and the slow dissolution of my sense of self.
There's new equipment positioned carefully around the room.
Things that weren't here before.
Things that make my stomach drop when I see them.
A full-length mirror, positioned at an angle where I can see myself from multiple perspectives.
Where I can watch myself from every angle during whatever comes next.
A camera on a tripod, professional-looking and expensive, its small red light already blinking steadily.
Recording.
Watching.
Documenting everything.
I stop dead in the doorway, my feet refusing to carry me further into the room. "What is that?"
"A camera." His voice is matter-of-fact, like this is completely normal.
"I can see that. Why is it here? Why is it recording?"
"Because you need to get comfortable performing while being watched. While being observed and recorded. The showcase will have an audience, Eden. Multiple people watching your every move. You need to practice with the awareness that eyes are on you. That you're being seen."
"No." I shake my head violently, backing up a step. "No, absolutely not. I'm not—I'm not being recorded. That's—what if someone sees it? What if it gets out? What if—"
"No one will see it but me. And you, when we review your performance afterward. It's for training purposes only. So you can watch yourself, see how you look, learn what needs improvement. Understand what the audience will see."
"I don't want to watch myself doing—doing those things—"
"Eden." He moves closer, not touching me but near enough that I can feel his presence like heat from a fire.
"This is non-negotiable. The camera stays.
You'll perform knowing it's recording. You'll get used to being observed, being watched, being on display.
Because in seven days, you'll have a real audience of real people.
And you need to be ready for that. Need to be comfortable with it. "
Tears threaten, hot and immediate behind my eyes.
I blink them back furiously. "I hate this."
"I know. But you're going to do it anyway. Because you always do what I ask. Eventually."
He's right.
We both know he's fucking right.
Because I always submit in the end.
Always break.
Always give him what he wants even when I swear I won't.
The pattern is established.
Inevitable. Inescapable.
"Take off the robe," he says.
My hands shake as I reach for the tie at my waist.
Undo it with fingers that feel numb and clumsy.
Let the robe fall to the floor in a puddle of white terry cloth.
Standing there in the lingerie he chose, in front of the mirror and the camera, feeling more exposed than I've ever felt in my life.
Even more exposed than when I'm completely naked. Because this—this is designed to be seen.
To be looked at. To be consumed visually.
This is me dressed as property for display.
"Beautiful," Vaughn says, and I hate how that single word makes something warm and pleased bloom in my chest despite everything. "Absolutely beautiful. Turn around. Slowly. Let me see all of you."
I turn in a slow circle, watching myself in the mirror as I move.
Watching the woman in black lace who looks like she belongs in this scenario, who looks like she was made for this.
Who looks like someone's darkest fantasy brought to breathing, trembling life.
Someone's acquisition.
Someone's perfectly trained toy.
"Perfect," he says, approval thick in his voice. "You look perfect, Eden. Do you see how beautiful you are? How perfect your body is in what I chose for you?"
I see. God help me, I see.
And some twisted part of me preens at his approval even while the rest of me wants to die of shame.
"Now, we're going to practice the commands you'll need to perform at the showcase. The ones that need to be absolutely automatic, no hesitation. Are you ready?"
No. Never. Not in a million years. "Yes."
"Good girl."
Those two words.
They still affect me every single time.
Still make my breath catch.
Still make me want to please him even when I hate myself for wanting.
Still make me feel valued in a way nothing else does.
"Kneel."
I drop to my knees immediately.
No hesitation. No internal debate. No resistance at all.
My body just obeys, bypassing my brain entirely.
When did that happen?
When did the command become so automatic that I'm on my knees before I even consciously process the instruction?
"Eyes up."
I look at him and meet his ice-blue gaze without flinching.
Another automatic response.
Another learned behavior.
"Good. You're getting so much better at this. So graceful now. So natural. Do you see?" He gestures to the mirror positioned to my left.
I look.
See myself kneeling in the black lingerie, the position that used to feel awkward and humiliating and wrong now looking—
Natural. Practiced. Elegant, even.
Like I've been doing it forever.
Like I belong there on my knees looking up at him with devotion I don't want to feel but can't seem to stop.
Like this is who I am now.
"Stand."
I rise to my feet smoothly, the movement fluid and controlled.
Another automatic response that my body performs without conscious thought.
"Present yourself."
This command is newer, learned over the past several days of intensive training.
It means a specific position—hands behind my head, fingers interlaced, elbows pulled back as far as they'll go, chest thrust forward, spine arched.
Displaying myself.
Showcasing what he owns.
Making my body into an offering.
I move into the position without thinking, muscle memory taking over completely.
My body knows what to do even when my mind is screaming.
"Beautiful. Perfect form. Hold that position. Five minutes."
Five minutes of standing like this while he circles me slowly like a predator.
While the camera records every second.
While I watch myself in the mirror holding this humiliating, exposing pose.
My arms start to ache at the two-minute mark.
The muscles in my shoulders burn from the strain of holding them back after three minutes.
By four minutes, I'm trembling slightly from the effort.
My thighs are shaking.
My calves are cramping.
But I don't move.
Don't lower my arms.
Don't break position even slightly.
Because he didn't give me permission to move. And I've learned—God, I've learned so well—that moving without permission brings disappointment instead of praise.
And I crave the praise more than I fear the discomfort.
That realization should horrify me. Does horrify me.
But it doesn't change the fact that it's true.
"Good girl," he says finally, after what feels like an eternity. "You can lower your arms now."
Relief floods through me as I drop my arms to my sides, rolling my shoulders to ease the burn.
"You did so well. Held the position for the entire five minutes without complaint or movement. I'm very proud of you."
The words make something glow warm and golden in my chest even as I hate myself for feeling it.
Even as I recognize it as conditioning, as training, as exactly what he's designed me to feel.
Still feels good.
Still makes me want more of his approval.
"Now," he says, moving to sit on the leather couch. "Come here."
I cross to him with steps that don't hesitate.
Stand in front of him.
Wait for the next command like a good, well-trained acquisition.
"On your knees. Between my legs."
My stomach drops.
I know what this means, know exactly what he's going to make me do.
Know that the camera is recording everything that's about to happen.
"Vaughn, please, not with the camera running—"
"Especially with the camera. You need to get comfortable with this. With performing. With being watched while you please me. The showcase will have an audience. This is necessary."
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can. You've done this multiple times now. You're getting quite skilled at it, actually. Now kneel."
I kneel between his spread thighs because what else can I do?
What power do I have to refuse?
None.
The answer is none.
He's already unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness.
Already unzipping his jeans.
Already freeing himself.
Already hard from watching me, from commanding me, from seeing me obey.
"You know what to do," he says.
I do.
God help me, I do.
I've done this enough times over the past two weeks that it's becoming routine.
I know what he likes now.
Know what makes him groan.
Know what brings him to the edge quickly.