If you were allowed to explore. To discover. To feel.
That curiosity is what keeps me awake at night now, staring at the second box on my dresser.
The one I haven't opened.
I know what's inside.
Vaughn told me when he left them.
A vibrator. Massage oil.
Things meant to help me explore my own body.
Things meant to teach me that pleasure isn't shameful.
Things I'm absolutely terrified to touch.
Because touching them means admitting something to myself.
Means crossing a line I can't uncross.
Means accepting that maybe—maybe—some part of me wants what he's offering.
And I can't admit that.
Can't admit that this man who bought me at an auction might be right about something.
Can't admit that my body might want things my mind says it shouldn't.
Can't admit that the curiosity is eating me alive.
So the box sits there. Unopened. Taunting me.
I'm sitting on the bed in silk pajamas I finally let myself wear because the cotton nightgowns I brought from the Sanctuary were scratchy and uncomfortable and wearing them felt like clinging to a past I can't get back to anyway.
The pajamas are soft. Comfortable. They feel like water against my skin.
Everything here is soft. Luxurious. Designed for comfort and pleasure and ease.
Designed to make me forget I'm in a cage.
And it's working.
That's what terrifies me most of all.
I'm getting comfortable here.
Getting used to the good food and the endless books and the hot showers that last as long as I want.
Getting used to Vaughn's presence at breakfast and dinner, his careful questions, the way he watches me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
Getting used to captivity.
And I hate that about myself.
I'm staring at the unopened box, my second book finished and lying on the nightstand, when there's a knock on my door.
"Eden?"
