Chapter 11 #4
"Because I need it. Because I can't—I can't think about anything else. Because it hurts to be this close and not—please, Vaughn, please, I'm begging you, please let me come—"
"Do you belong to me?"
"Yes! Yes, I belong to you."
"Say it clearly. Tell me who owns you."
"You own me. Vaughn Sutherland owns me. I'm yours. Please, I'm yours, please let me come—"
"Good girl. Come for me. Now."
The permission is all I need.
My body obeys immediately, like it's been trained to do.
The orgasm crashes through me with devastating intensity, making my knees buckle.
Only Vaughn's arm around my waist keeps me upright as pleasure tears through every nerve.
I watch myself in the mirror coming apart.
See my face contorted in ecstasy.
See my body shaking.
See proof of my complete surrender.
See the woman I've become.
When it finally subsides, when I can breathe again, I realize what I just did.
I begged. Pleaded. Said I belonged to him. Admitted he owns me.
Reduced myself to desperate, shameless need.
And the worst part?
It felt natural.
Easy.
Like my body and mouth have learned a script I didn't know I was memorizing.
Like begging is becoming automatic.
"Perfect," Vaughn says, still holding me upright. "That was absolutely perfect. Do you see how easy it is when you stop fighting? When you just let yourself ask for what you want?"
"I don't want this," I say, but it sounds hollow. A lie we both recognize.
"Your body disagrees. And in seven days, you'll beg for me just like that in front of the Consortium. And they'll see exactly how well-trained you are. How devoted. How completely you belong to me."
The reminder makes reality crash back like cold water.
Seven days.
One week.
Then this stops being practice and becomes performance.
Then everything becomes real.
That night, I can't sleep again.
It's becoming a pattern.
Vaughn beside me breathing deep and steady, asleep, while I lie awake staring at the ceiling trying to process everything.
Trying to understand who I'm becoming.
Trying to remember who I used to be.
Two weeks ago—or is it more? Three weeks? I genuinely don't know—I ran from this house.
Chose potential death in the freezing woods over submission to Vaughn Sutherland.
Now I'm here.
In his bed wearing silk pajamas he bought me.
My body trained to respond to his commands like a perfectly tuned instrument.
Craving his approval like it's oxygen.
What happened to me?
When did I stop being the woman who escaped a cult and start being the woman who begs to come?
When did resistance become compliance?
When did I start anticipating training sessions instead of dreading them?
When did I start to forget why I wanted to leave in the first place?
The questions circle endlessly in my head, unanswerable and tormenting.
I think about the showcase.
Seven days away.
So close I can almost touch it.
Think about what I'll have to do.
Kneeling in front of an audience.
Presenting myself while men watch.
Using my mouth on Vaughn while the Consortium judges my technique, my devotion, my training.
Performing my submission for their entertainment and approval.
I should be terrified. Hell, I am terrified.
But I'm also—
Curious.
The admission, even just to myself in the privacy of my own mind, feels like the final surrender.
Some sick, twisted part of me is curious about how it will feel to perform for them.
To prove I'm Vaughn's.
To show them how well he's trained me.
Some part of me wants to be perfect for him.
Wants to hear him say "good girl" in front of all those powerful men.
Wants to see pride in his eyes when I complete every command flawlessly.
And that's how I know I'm broken, or changed.
Or whatever word makes this transformation feel less like losing myself and more like finding something new.
Because the girl who ran from the Sanctuary, who escaped Elder Jacob, who spent three-and-a-half hours in freezing woods rather than submit to anyone—
She wouldn't want this.
Wouldn't crave his approval.
Wouldn't anticipate his touch.
Wouldn't be curious about performing.
That girl is gone.
Dead and buried under two weeks of systematic conditioning.
And the woman I'm becoming? She's someone I don't fully recognize yet.
Someone who kneels without hesitation. Who begs without shame. Who finds pleasure in submission.
Someone who belongs to Vaughn Sutherland.
And the most terrifying part? Some piece of me is starting to be okay with that.
Starting to accept it.
Maybe even want it.
"Can't sleep?" Vaughn's voice startles me in the darkness.
"I thought you were asleep."
"I was. Your restlessness woke me." He shifts, pulling me against his chest with familiar ease. "What's wrong?"
Everything. Nothing. I don't even know anymore. "I'm thinking."
"About?"
"The showcase."
"Are you scared?"
"Yes. Terrified."
"Of performing? Or of wanting to perform?"
The question cuts too close. "Both."
He's quiet for a moment, his hand stroking my hair in soothing rhythms. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm thinking—" I stop. Force myself to be honest. "I'm thinking that I don't recognize myself anymore. That I've changed so much I don't know who I am. That the girl who ran from you is completely gone and I don't know if I should mourn her or be relieved."
"Why relieved?"
"Because she was so tired. So scared all the time. So busy fighting that she never got to just—exist. Just be."
"And now?"
"Now I'm different. Still scared sometimes. But not fighting as much. Not resisting. Just—" I struggle for words. "Just accepting. Submitting. Becoming what you're making me."
"What do you think I'm making you?"
"Yours. Completely yours. Body and mind and—" I can't finish.
"And?" he prompts gently.
"And heart," I whisper. "I think you're training my heart too. Making me feel things I shouldn't feel. Want things I shouldn't want."
"Like what?"
"Like your approval. Your praise. Your touch. Your—" I stop again.
"My what, Eden?"
"Your care. The way you hold me after. The way you make sure I'm okay. The way you look at me like I matter. Like I'm more than just property."
"You are more than property."
"But I am property. You bought me. Own me. That's what this showcase is about—proving your ownership."
"It's also about showing the Consortium that I can be trusted with power. That I can train someone without breaking them. That I deserve a place in the inner circle."
"And if you had to choose? Between the inner circle and me?"
The question hangs in the darkness.
He's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer.
"I don't know. A month ago, the answer would have been easy. The inner circle. Power. Everything I've been working toward for years. But now—"
"Now?"
"Now it's more complicated. You've become—" He stops. Starts again. "You matter to me, Eden. More than you should. More than is convenient or strategic or smart. And I don't know what that means yet."
The admission makes my chest tight.
"Do you want me?" I ask. "Actually want me? Or do you just want to own something beautiful and broken that you can display?"
"Both. And neither. I want you because you're strong. Because you survived the Sanctuary and Elder Jacob and running and the hunt and everything I've done to you since. Because you're not broken—you're resilient. Adaptable. Stronger than you think you are."
"I don't feel strong."
"Strength isn't about not bending. It's about bending without breaking. You've bent, yes. Changed, yes. But you haven't broken. You're still you underneath all the training. Still Eden."
"Am I? Because I don't know anymore."
"You are. You're just discovering new parts of yourself. Parts that were always there but buried under the Sanctuary's programming. Parts that are finally free to emerge now that you're safe to explore them."
"Safe? I'm a captive being trained for a showcase."
"Safe from the Sanctuary's judgment. From the belief that desire is sin. From thinking you have to be one thing forever. You can be both the girl who ran and the woman who kneels. Both can exist in the same person."
Both things can be true.
There's that phrase again.
"Seven days," I whisper.
"Seven days."
"And then?"
"And then we see what happens. One day at a time. But Eden—" He tightens his hold on me. "Whatever happens at the showcase, whatever comes after—you're mine. That doesn't change. The Consortium doesn't change that. Nothing changes that."
"Even if I wanted to leave?"
"You don't want to leave."
"How do you know?"
"Because you haven't tried again. Haven't tested the doors. Haven't looked for opportunities. If you really wanted to leave, you would have tried by now."
He's right.
I hate that he's right, but he is.
I haven't even thought about escaping in weeks.
Haven't looked for exits or opportunities or ways out.
Because some part of me doesn't want out anymore.
Some part of me wants to stay exactly where I am.
"Sleep," he says softly. "Tomorrow is another training day. And we're running out of time."
I close my eyes.
Try to quiet my racing thoughts.
Try to accept what I'm becoming.
And tell myself that the warm feeling in my chest when he holds me is just conditioning.
Just my body responding to care after years of neglect at the Sanctuary.
Not affection.
Not connection.
Not—
Not love.
Because I can't be falling in love with my captor.
Can't be developing feelings for the man who bought me at an auction.
Can't be.
Won't be.
It's just conditioning.
Just Stockholm syndrome.
Just my brain trying to make sense of captivity by romanticizing it.
That's all.
Has to be.
Because the alternative—that I'm actually falling for Vaughn Sutherland, that I actually want to be his, that I'm choosing this instead of just submitting to it—
That's too terrifying to contemplate.
So I don't.
I just close my eyes and try to sleep.
And tell myself that in seven days, after the showcase, everything will make sense.
Even though I know it won't.
Nothing about this makes sense.
And maybe it never will.