Page 5 of UnTrained: Volume Two
"Why?" I whisper, needing to understand. "Why me? After everything you've seen, everything you know about me..."
Aiden's thumb traces my lower lip, the touch so light it's barely there. "Because I see your strength. Your resilience. Because even after everything they did to try to break you, you're still fighting to reclaim yourself."
My heart pounds against my ribs like a caged bird. I should be terrified by this—by him, by the intensity of what's building between us. But instead, I feel something I haven't felt in months: desire. Not the programmed response they conditioned into me at the facility, but something real and warm and mine.
"Yes," I say, my voice steadier than I expect. "You can kiss me."
Something flashes in his eyes—relief, hunger, tenderness—all mixed together. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair as he draws me closer. I have time to change my mind, to pull away, but I don't want to.
His lips touch mine, gentle at first, barely a whisper of contact. It's a question more than a kiss, giving me the chance to retreat. But instead of pulling back, I press forward, answering his question with my body.
The kiss deepens, his mouth moving against mine with growing intensity. Heat spreads through me, a slow burn that starts at my lips and travels downward, pooling low in my belly. I make a small sound in the back of my throat, something between a sigh and a whimper.
Aiden's hand tightens in my hair, not painfully but with enough pressure to remind me who's in control. The sensation sends a shiver down my spine, igniting nerves I thought had been deadened by trauma.
When he finally pulls away, we're both breathing harder. His blue eyes have darkened, pupils expanded with desire. I feel dizzy, lightheaded in a way that has nothing to do with fear. I feel alive, truly alive, for the first time since before my captivity.
5
"Was that okay?" Aiden asks, his voice rougher than before.
I nod, unable to find words. My lips tingle where his touched mine, and I resist the urge to press my fingers against them, to preserve the sensation.
"Tell me," he says, the command gentle but unmistakable.
"Yes," I whisper. "More than okay."
A smile touches his lips—not the careful, professional smile I saw at the facility, but something warmer, more genuine. His hand slides from my hair to cup my cheek.
"This changes things," he says quietly. "You understand that?"
I nod, though I'm not entirely sure what he means. Changes things how? Between us? Within me? Both, probably.
"We need to be careful," Aiden continues. "You're still healing. I don't want to complicate that process."
Part of me wants to argue, to tell him that maybe this is exactly what my healing needs. But another part—the careful, cautious part that survived the facility—knows he's right. Whatever is happening between us is complicated, potentially dangerous for both of us. The fact that he recognizes this, that he's putting boundaries in place even as desire darkens his eyes, makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
"I know," I say softly. "But I still want this. I need..." I trail off, not sure how to articulate what I'm feeling.
Aiden's thumb traces my cheekbone, his touch feather-light. "What do you need, Lana? Tell me."
The command in his voice makes it easier somehow, gives me permission to voice desires I've been afraid to acknowledge.
"I need to reclaim this part of myself," I say, the words coming slowly at first, then rushing out. "The part that wanted submission before they twisted it. I need to know it can still be beautiful. That they didn't destroy that too."
Aiden's eyes soften, his expression a mixture of understanding and something deeper that makes my heart skip. "We'll take it slow," he promises. "One step at a time."
He steps back, creating space between us that feels both necessary and painful. The loss of his touch leaves me slightly adrift, but his voice anchors me again.
"Tonight, we'll stay in this dynamic until you go to bed," he says, his voice shifting back to that commanding tone that makes my spine straighten automatically. "I'll give you tasks. Simple ones, to start with. You'll address me as Sir. You'll follow my instructions. And if at any point you need to stop, you say 'red.' Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," I reply, the words feeling right on my tongue in a way I never expected.
"Good girl." He steps back, his posture shifting subtly. His shoulders straighten, his chin lifts slightly, and suddenly he seems to take up more space in the room. "Your first task is to make us both some tea."
It's such a simple request, mundane even, but the way he says it—the quiet authority in his voice—makes it feel like more than just preparing a beverage. It feels like a gift I'm giving him, an act of service that has meaning beyond the action itself.
I move to the kitchen, aware of his eyes following me. There's something comforting about having a clear directive, about knowing exactly what's expected of me. I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, then reach for the cups from the cabinet, selecting the nicest ones I have. The simple act of choosing which tea to brew becomes a small meditation as I consider what he might prefer.
