Page 146 of Entangled

I freeze, one hand on the disinfectant as she continues lazily, “Woman’s power lies in man’s passion, and she knows how to use it, if man doesn’t understand himself. He has only one choice: to be the tyrant over or the slave of woman—to which you write, ‘Let me be both. Your tyrant and your slave. In allowing me to own you, you own me.’” Heather whistles low. “Spicy. Pretty scandalous stuff.”

Spinning, I see she has my copy ofVenus in Furs, stolen from my bedside. Raw panic flutters over the things I wrote in that forsaken book.

“Give that back to me, you thieving demon. Don’t you read another word.”

Heather flicks through the pages and pauses. “A slap in the face is more effective than ten lectures. It makes you understand very quickly—and you say, ‘You must tell me if Jaykob agrees.’ Huh. She slapped the caveman. Nice.”

I bolt over to her, abandoning dignity, and she stands on my armchair, holding it out of reach.

“I want to go on whipping without pity until you beg for mercy, until you lose your senses. You just say, ‘Beg me.’ Honestly? A little threatening.”

I leap up onto the armchair and tear the book from her hand. She elbows me in the gut, and I grunt as I get off the chair.

Smoothing my hair back, I hold the book to my chest. Did she rumple the pages? No matter what Dominic said, if she rumpled my pages, I will murder her on the spot.

“Dominic would like to see you in the library,” I grit out. “So please—get out.”

Heather grins, then steps onto my coffee table, walking to the end of it. “Touchy, touchy.” She jumps down and heads to the door. “Just let me know if you want me to give her the book. I’ll even put a restraining order on top—make it nice and easy for her.”

The door closes behind her, and I stare at her pack, contemplating emptying the contents into the fire.

There’s a brief knock, and I turn toward it to snarl, “I will salt your sinuses while you sleep if you do not give me a moment’s peace.”

The door opens on Beaumont’s bemused face, and he glances around the room warily. “So room sharing is starting off mighty swell over here, I see.”

I massage my temple with one finger, my fatigue truly making itself known. Beaumont, however, looks disgustingly refreshed for—I glance at my grandfather clock—half-past three in the morning.

“Not all of us have such charming companions,” I mutter. I contemplate how to rid myself of Beaumont. My bed is calling me. “Speaking of which, why are you here and not with her?”

He shrugs, stretching. “Woke up early. Too wired.”

I hardly need to wonder why. I do wonder what she looks like, though, all sleepy and sated and tangled in her bedsheets. I watched her more than I’m proud of—more than I can brush away—while we traveled home. Eden doesn’t sleep easily. Even resting against Jaykob, the firelight flickering over her face, her dreams always seemed to trouble her.

It took all my strength, each night I watched, not to lean over and kiss the tense lines in her forehead.

Jaykob might have murdered me if I tried.

Beaumont hesitates, then frowns, a shadow passing over his face. “Look, I wanted to talk to you about something. Eden moved her bedside table in front of the door. Do you know why she’d do that?”

That gets my attention. I lift my head, watching him.

Eden is concerning me. She’s hardly sleeping. Eating minimally. She’s struggling to maintain her composure—displaying classic signs of emotional dysregulation, hypervigilance, hyperarousal, as well as bouts of listlessness and aggression. Classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress, and hardly surprising, all things considered.

I only wish she might be willing to discuss it.

I’ve been patient, giving her space, but it only seems to be worsening.

“You know why,” I murmur, meeting his eyes.

Beaumont’s face darkens. “She should never have had to deal with this.”

Sadness drenches me. “No, she shouldn’t. But she has—what matters now is how she deals with it. Many of the civilians are dealing with trauma. Some have already come to talk with me about it during our travels.”

“But she hasn’t,” he says. He knows his submissive.

“No, she hasn’t.”

Beaumont seems to struggle with that for a moment, his jaw working as he thinks. “Well, that’s fine. I’ll just make her. She doesn’t get a choice, and you can help her.”

---