The way her breath catches ever so slightly, her pupils dilating just a fraction.
She hates that it affects her.
Hates that those two simple words—good girl—make something in her chest tighten with an emotion she doesn't want to name.
Make her want to please me even when she's trying so hard to maintain her resistance.
But they do.
And I'm going to use that ruthlessly over the next three weeks. Going to condition her to crave my approval, to need my praise, to do anything to hear those words.
"Next command," I say. "Kneel."
Her eyes go wide, genuine shock replacing the simmering anger. "What?"
"You heard me. Kneel."
"Absolutely not."
"Eden. This is training. This is what you agreed to not twenty minutes ago. Kneel."
"No. That's—that's too submissive. Too?—"
"That's exactly the point. At the showcase, you may be asked to kneel for me. To demonstrate your submission to me in front of the entire Consortium. So, you need to learn how to do it gracefully, without hesitation, without making it look like you're being forced. Kneel."
She stands frozen, every muscle in her body screaming resistance.
I can see the war playing out in her eyes—the urge to refuse battling against the knowledge that refusal will only make things worse.
"The longer you fight this, the harder it will be," I say quietly, keeping my voice calm and reasonable. "Every second you stand here resisting is a second wasted. Kneel. Now."
Slowly—so painfully slowly—she lowers herself to her knees.
It's clumsy. Graceless.
She doesn't know how to do this, has never done it before.
Never learned how to kneel for anyone, how to make her body into a posture of submission.
But she does it.
She kneels in front of me on the library floor, hands clenched into fists at her sides, head bowed, shoulders rigid with tension and barely suppressed fury.
"Eyes up," I say. "When you kneel for me, you look at me. Always. I want to see your face. Want to see your eyes. Want you to see me watching you in this position."
She lifts her head slowly and meets my gaze with effort.
The fury there is magnificent.
Mixed with humiliation that stains her cheeks red.
With hatred that burns bright and hot.
With arousal she doesn't want to acknowledge, doesn't want to feel, can't control.
"Good girl," I say, and this time I put my hand in her hair. Gentle. Possessive. Threading my fingers through the soft strands. "You're learning."
"I hate this."
