Page 22 of UnTrained: Volume Two
"No, Lana," he says, stepping closer until I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "I don't think you do. Not yet."His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip. "But if this is what you want—what you truly want—I'm willing to show you."
I read through the document twice before I sign my name.
Everything is laid out in explicit detail. What we’re agreeing to. Safe words. Hard limits.
It’s terrifying.
And it’s also the easiest thing I’ve ever done when I lift the pen and scrawl my name at the bottom.
Aiden's eyes hold mine as I set the pen down, a strange sense of calm washes over me. This contract between us feels more honest, more real than any document I've signed since my return. It's not about reclaiming property or bank accounts or legal identity. It's about reclaiming desire. Choice.
"Now what?" I whisper, my voice steadier than I expected.
Aiden takes the contract, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that feels deliberate, claiming. "Now," he says, his voice dropping to that register that makes my spine straighten automatically, "you're mine."
The words send a shiver through me, equal parts fear and anticipation. Mine. Such a simple word that carries so much weight.
"For how long?" I ask, suddenly needing to understand the boundaries of this new arrangement.
"For the next two days," Aiden replies, folding the contract and slipping it into his pocket. "And then we’ll reassess. Remember, Lana, this isn't prison. You can walk away at any time."
Two days. Forty-eight hours where I'm completely his. The thought makes my pulse quicken.
"Thank you, Sir," I say, the title feeling right on my tongue.
Aiden's expression shifts subtly, his posture straightening as he slips fully into his dominant role. The transformation is fascinating to watch—his eyes darken, his jaw sets, and suddenly he seems to take up more space in the room.
"From this moment," he says, his voice deeper now, resonating with authority, "you will address me as Sir. You will obey my commands without hesitation. You will speak honestly about your needs and limits." His fingers brush my cheek, a touch that feels both tender and possessive. "And in return, I will take care of you. I will protect you. I will give you what you need, even when that's not always what you want."
I nod, my throat suddenly dry. "Yes, Sir."
"Good girl." The simple praise sends warmth spreading through my chest. "Now, go to your bedroom and remove all your clothes. Kneel at the foot of the bed and wait for me."
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Iundress slowly, folding each item with deliberate care. The air feels cool against my bare skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and legs. I'm surprised by how little fear I feel—just a gentle flutter of anticipation, of surrender freely chosen.
I kneel at the foot of the bed as instructed, knees slightly apart, hands resting palm-up on my thighs. The position feels natural, as if my body remembers something my mind is only beginning to understand. I focus on my breathing, trying to quiet the riot of thoughts in my head.
Minutes pass. I resist the urge to fidget, to look toward the door, to wonder what Aiden is doing. This waiting is part of it, I realize—this surrender of time, of control over what happens next.
When the door finally opens, my breath catches in my throat. Aiden stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
His eyes travel over my naked form, and I feel myself flush under his gaze. Not with shame, but with something else. Pride, maybe. That I can kneel here before him, vulnerable yet strong in my choice.
"Beautiful," he says, his voice low and appreciative.
I keep my eyes downcast, focusing on the carpet beneath my knees. My heart pounds against my ribs, a rhythm of anticipation rather than fear.
Aiden moves into the room, circling me slowly. I can feel his gaze like a physical touch, assessing, appreciating. He stops behind me, out of my line of sight, and I resist the urge to turn and look at him.
I feel the warmth of his presence behind me, the subtle shift in the air as he moves closer. A shiver runs down my spine when his fingers brush lightly across my shoulders.
"You're trembling," he observes, his voice closer to my ear now.
"Yes, Sir," I whisper, keeping my eyes fixed forward.
"Are you afraid?" There's genuine concern beneath the dominant tone.
