I can't tell.
His face is unreadable as I take my seat across from him, as Mrs. Silva sets coffee in front of me with a gentle smile.
"Good morning, Eden."
His voice is the same as always.
Calm. Measured. Revealing nothing.
"Morning," I manage.
I wrap my hands around the mug, using the warmth to steady myself, to ground myself in something real and solid when everything inside me feels like it's trembling.
We eat in silence for several minutes.
Eggs and toast that I can barely taste.
Coffee that I drink too fast, burning my tongue.
The tension builds with every second that passes.
Every time I try to speak, the words stick in my throat.
How do you ask for this?
How do you tell someone you need them to show you pleasure when you're supposed to hate them?
When they bought you like property?
When every sane part of you is screaming that this is wrong, that you're making a terrible mistake, that you'll regret this?
Finally, I can't stand it anymore.
I set down my fork with a clatter that sounds too loud in the quiet kitchen.
"You asked me to tell you when I was ready," I say.
The words come out steadier than I expected, clearer.
Like some part of me has already accepted this and moved past the fear.
Vaughn looks up from his newspaper slowly.
Deliberately.
Those ice-blue eyes lock on mine, and I feel pinned under their intensity.
"Yes," he says simply.
"I'm ready."
The words hang between us in the air, heavy with implications.
With surrender. With admission.
With want.
He sets down the newspaper carefully, every movement controlled and gives me his full, undivided attention.
