He looks dangerous.
Ice-blue eyes darker than I've ever seen them, almost navy in the low light.
Jaw tight with tension he's barely containing.
Hands clenched at his sides like he's forcing himself not to reach for me, not to cross the space between us and take what he wants.
The careful, patient man from breakfast this morning is gone.
This is someone else.
Someone rawer.
Someone who's done pretending.
"I said strip, Eden."
His voice is cold.
Final.
The voice of a man who's done being patient, done giving choices, done pretending this is anything other than what it is.
Ownership.
"Vaughn, please—" My voice comes out smaller than I intend. Weaker. "Can't I just—can we talk about this?"
"No. We're done talking. You talked with your actions when you ran. Now I'm responding with mine. Strip. Now."
My hands are shaking as I reach for the hem of my sweater.
The cashmere that was so soft this morning now feels rough and uncomfortable.
It's damp from crossing the creek during my escape attempt, clinging to my skin in a way that makes me feel claustrophobic.
I peel it off slowly, my movements jerky and uncoordinated from cold, fear, and exhaustion.
I let it fall to the floor.
I'm wearing just a bra now.
Plain, white, nothing special.
And jeans that are soaked through below the knees, heavy with creek water, making my legs ache.
I wrap my arms around myself.
Try to maintain some dignity, some protection, some barrier between his gaze and my body.
"All of it," he says.
"I'm cold."
"I know you're cold. That's why you need dry clothes and warmth. So take off the wet things. Now."
"Can't you just—can't I go to my room and change there? Please?"
"You don't have a room anymore."
