"That doesn't make any sense," Ava said, shaking her head, her red hair swaying with the motion.
"It makes perfect sense," I replied calmly. "We want you. We have you. Now we want you to want us back. The methods may seem cold, but the motivation is love." Through the bond, I felt her confusion, the cognitive dissonance of trying to reconcile my clinical approach with the word "love." She didn't understand yet that love could be calculated. That devotion could be methodical.
She would learn.
"I have something for you," I said, reaching into my desk drawer and withdrawing a small leather journal, its cover soft and expensive. I slid it across the desk toward her. "A gift."
Ava stared at it without touching it, her expression wary. "What is it?"
"A journal," I explained, watching her closely. "For your thoughts. Your feelings. Whatever you want to write."
"So you can read it?" Ava asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.
"No," I replied honestly, meeting her eyes. "That would defeat the purpose. You need an outlet, Ava. Somewhere to process what's happening to you. The journal is private. I give you my word."
"Your word," Ava repeated, bitter amusement coloring her tone. "The word of a man who helped orchestrate my kidnapping."
"The word of a man who has never lied to you," I corrected gently. "I may have deceived you in the past through omission, but I have never spoken a direct falsehood. Ask the others—they'll confirm it. Honesty is important to me."
Ava was silent, her eyes fixed on the journal. Through the bond, I felt her desire warring with her suspicion. She wanted it, wanted an outlet, a space that was hers alone. Finally, slowly, she reached out and took it.
"Thank you," Ava said quietly, the words clearly costing her, her fingers curling protectively around the leather cover.
"You're welcome," I replied, genuine warmth entering my voice. This was progress. Small, but measurable. "There's one more thing."
Ava tensed immediately, her guard snapping back into place. "What?"
"A schedule," I said, pulling a printed page from my desk and offering it to her. "Your daily routine. Meals, exercise, reading time, time with each of us individually. Structure helps with adjustment." Ava took the paper, her green eyes scanning the neat columns and times. Through the bond, I felt her reaction, part of her bristling at the control, another part finding unexpected comfort in the predictability.
"You've planned out every hour of my day," Ava said flatly, though there was less anger in it than I expected.
"Not every hour," I corrected mildly. "You'll notice there are blocks of free time. What you do with those is up to you."
"As long as I stay in the cabin," Ava added, her voice dry.
"For now," I agreed. "As I said, privileges can be earned." She was quiet for a long moment, staring at the schedule, the journal clutched in her other hand. Through the bond, I felt something shift, not acceptance, not yet, but something adjacent to it. Resignation, perhaps. The first stage of adaptation.
"Why are you telling me all this?" Ava finally asked, looking up to meet my gaze. "The conditioning, the methods. Why be so honest about what you're doing?"
"Because you're intelligent," I replied simply, folding my hands on the desk. "You would have figured it out eventually, and the realization would have felt like another betrayal. This way, you understand the process. You can even participate in it consciously, if you choose."
"Participate in my own brainwashing," Ava said, a hollow laugh escaping her lips.
"Participate in your own adjustment," I corrected gently. "The end result is the same whether you fight it or embrace it. But fighting makes it harder. Longer. More painful."
"And if I embrace it, I lose myself," Ava said quietly, her green eyes searching my face.
"No," I said firmly, leaning forward slightly, holding her gaze. "You become yourself. The self you were always meant to be, before suppressants and fear and your mother's paranoia buried it. The Omega who loved us before she learned to be afraid."
Her breath caught. Through the bond, I felt the impact of my words, the wound I'd just pressed on, the memory of what she'd felt for us before everything changed.
"That girl is gone," Ava whispered, her voice barely audible.
"She's not gone," I replied softly, something almost like gentleness entering my voice. "She's just hiding. And we're going to help her come back out." Silence stretched between us, heavy with implication. Ava's eyes were bright with unshed tears, her jaw tight with the effort of holding them back.
"You can go," I said finally, releasing her from the intensity of the moment. "Breakfast is in twenty minutes. Leo is cooking today—pancakes, I believe."
Ava stood slowly, the journal and schedule clutched to her chest like armor. She paused at the door, turning back to look at me.
