And for the first time since I brought her here, she doesn't look away first.
"I'm going to my room," she says finally.
"Okay."
"Don't follow me."
"I won't."
She walks past me. Stops at the door.
"Vaughn."
I turn.
She's not looking at me. Just standing there with her back to me, hand on the doorframe.
"Yes?"
"I read about them, you know. The Sanctuary. What they did. What they really are." She pauses. "You're right that you're different from them. But that doesn't make this okay. It doesn't make you safe. It just makes you... complicated."
Then she's gone.
I stand there in the empty library for a long time.
Complicated.
I can live with complicated.
That evening, I don't join her for dinner.
I tell Mrs. Silva to serve Eden in the dining room as usual, but that I'll eat in my office.
I need to give her space, to let her process our conversation.
I need to show her that I meant what I said about respecting boundaries.
Instead, I sit at my desk with my laptop open, reading everything Dr. Caldwell sent me.
Research papers on religious trauma. Articles about deprogramming from purity culture. Books on helping trauma survivors reclaim their sexuality.
It's overwhelming. Years of damage that I'm supposed to help undo.
Me. The man who bought her at an auction.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't so fucked up.
Around ten, I check the security feed.
Eden's in her room, sitting on the bed with a book.
Not reading. Just holding it. Staring at the wall.
Thinking.
About what, I don't know.
But she's not crying. Not panicking.
