She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup in nervous circles.
Around and around, endless loops like she's trying to find a way out that doesn't exist.
"What does the training involve?" she asks finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Teaching you what the Consortium expects. How to behave in front of them. How to respond to me. How to demonstrate clearly and without doubt that you're mine, that you belong to me completely, that you're well-trained and obedient."
"An audience." She closes her eyes, and I can see her processing the reality of it. "I have to perform. In front of other men. Other couples. Like an animal at a show."
"Not like an animal. Like a woman who belongs to someone. Like an acquisition that reflects well on her owner. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm sitting."
"Eden." I wait until she looks at me, until those haunted eyes meet mine. "I know this isn't what you want. I know you'd rather run again if you thought you could get away, rather die in those woods than submit to this. But you can't run. You can't escape. So, the question is: do you want to learn this from me, with patience and care and preparation? Or do you want me to force it, to break you down until you have no choice but to comply? Because either way, you're going to that showcase. Either way, you're going to perform. The only variable is how traumatic the process is."
She studies my face for a long moment, looking for the lie, the trap, the hidden cruelty beneath the reasonable words.
She won't find it.
Because I'm being completely honest.
This is the most honest I've been with her since the moment I saw her on that auction stage.
"If I agree," she says slowly, testing each word, "if I train with you willingly... what does that look like? What exactly are you going to make me do?"
"It means you follow my instructions without resistance. You practice what I teach you. You trust that I'm preparing you for this in the least traumatic way possible. I'll push you, yes. I'll make you uncomfortable. But I won't break you more than necessary."
"And if I don't do it right? If I can't perform the way you want?"
"Then we practice until you can. I have three weeks, Eden. Twenty-one days. That's more than enough time to teach you everything you need to know. To condition your body and mind to respond the way the Consortium expects."
She takes a shaky breath, and I can see her hands trembling around the coffee cup. "And if I say no? If I refuse to cooperate at all?"
"Then I'll make every decision for you. What you eat, what you wear, when you sleep, when you speak, when you breathe. I'll control every single aspect of your existence until the showcase. And when we get there, you'll perform anyway. It will just be harder for you. More frightening. More overwhelming. You'll go in unprepared and terrified instead of trained and confident."
The threat hangs between us like a blade.
She knows I'm not bluffing.
Knows I'll do exactly what I'm threatening.
Has already seen what I'm capable of when she ran.
"So, I can choose to suffer through training," she says bitterly, her voice sharp with anger and resignation, "or sufferthrough being completely controlled. Those are my options. Submit or be broken."
"Yes."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. It's a hollow, broken sound that echoes in the too-large dining room. "You're a monster."
"Perhaps. But I'm a monster who's offering you a path through this that doesn't destroy you completely. That leaves you with some sense of self when it's over. I suggest you take it."
Another long silence.
I can see her weighing the options, calculating which path causes less damage.
Which choice leaves her with more of herself intact.
Then, so quietly I almost don't hear it: "Fine."
