Page 23 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T he conservatory breathes with life—humid air thick with the scent of blooming orchids, ferns unfurling in the diffused sunlight, the quiet burble of water features creating an atmosphere of manufactured serenity.

I've claimed this space as my own over the past weeks, spending hours arranging flowers in the quiet mornings, finding purpose in creation despite my captivity.

My fingers work with practiced precision, weaving delicate sprays of baby's breath between dramatic black calla lilies. The contrast pleases me—innocence and darkness coexisting in strange harmony. Like my situation, perhaps. The irony isn't lost on me.

Richard Blackwood's unexpected visit had disrupted the careful routine Gage and I had established.

Lunch with him yesterday had been revealing—not for what he said directly, but for the undercurrents beneath polite conversation.

I'd learned more about Gage's family dynamics in one hour with his uncle than in all the weeks of my captivity.

"Gage's father was a formidable man," Richard had said, watching me over the rim of his wine glass. "Brilliant in business, lacking in paternal instinct. My brother saw children as extensions of legacy rather than individuals to nurture."

"That must have been difficult for Gage," I'd offered carefully.

Richard's smile hadn't reached his eyes. "Difficult circumstances forge exceptional people, don't they? My nephew learned early to rely on himself, to view relationships through the lens of utility rather than sentiment."

The conversation had circled Gage's childhood without directly addressing it—hints of violence, of protection offered to his mother, of a household ruled by fear rather than affection. Richard had masterfully implied without stating, suggesting without confirming.

"He values your independence, you know," Richard had said as lunch concluded. "Others might have seen your spirit as an obstacle to overcome. Gage sees it as an asset to acquire."

I set down my garden shears, studying the arrangement before me. Nearly complete, needing just one final element. I select a perfect white rose, placing it at the center of the composition—a focal point of purity amid the surrounding darkness.

"Beautiful."

I startle at the voice, so absorbed in my work I hadn't noticed Gage's entrance. He stands in the doorway, watching me with that intense focus that has become familiar. Today he wears casual clothing—dark jeans and a gray sweater that softens his usual imposing presence without diminishing it.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he says, moving into the conservatory. "Mrs. Henderson mentioned you'd been here since dawn."

I gesture toward the arrangement. "Creating helps me think."

"And what are you thinking about so intently this morning?" He stops a respectful distance away, observation rather than intrusion.

"Your uncle," I answer honestly, seeing no benefit in evasion. "He's quite different from you."

Gage looks annoyed. "Richard excels at making impressions. Not all of them accurate."

"He spoke of your father." I watch carefully for his reaction, testing boundaries in this moment of relative privacy.

Gage's left hand flexes slightly—that tell I've cataloged indicating stronger emotion beneath his controlled exterior. "My father is not a topic for discussion, Penelope."

"Even between future spouses?" I press, surprising myself with my boldness.

His gaze sharpens. "Especially between us. Some subjects serve no purpose except to create unnecessary friction."

I return to my flowers, adjusting the position of a calla lily. "Friction seems inevitable in our arrangement, regardless of conversation topics."

"Only if you persist in viewing our situation as adversarial rather than collaborative." He moves closer now, studying my creation with genuine interest. "You have remarkable talent. The balance of elements, the tension between contrasting forms—it's quite striking."

"Thank you." The compliment catches me off guard, seeming genuinely appreciative rather than merely strategic.

He circles the arrangement slowly, his trained eye analyzing the composition. "The white rose is an interesting choice as a focal point," he observes. "Innocence surrounded by darkness."

"Or purity persisting despite its environment," I counter.

A slight smile touches his lips. "Perspective determines interpretation, as always."

We fall into silence that isn't entirely uncomfortable. I continue making minor adjustments to the arrangement while Gage observes, his presence less intrusive than I might have expected. When I finish, I step back to assess the final result.

"Satisfied?" he asks.

"Mostly," I admit. "Creativity is always a compromise between vision and execution."

"A philosophical approach to flower arranging."

"Everything is philosophy when freedom is limited," I reply, unable to resist the subtle jab.

Rather than showing irritation, he seems almost amused by my persistence. "Even in captivity, the mind remains free to create. To find meaning in constraint."

"Poetic justification for imprisonment."

"Realistic assessment of universal conditions," he counters. "All lives operate within constraints, Penelope. The difference lies in recognizing them rather than fighting against immovable boundaries."

I begin cleaning my workspace, gathering scattered stems and leaves. "Is that how you justify what you've done?"

"I don't need justification." His voice remains even, matter-of-fact. "I entered a business arrangement with your father that happens to include marriage. The legal and ethical frameworks surrounding such arrangements may be complex, but they are entirely legitimate."

"Ethics that conveniently align with your objectives."

"As opposed to ethics that would condemn me while failing to improve your situation?" He moves to help me clear the workspace, the domestic gesture incongruous with our conversation. "Moral outrage without a practical alternative offers nothing but emotional satisfaction, Penelope."

I find myself unable to form an immediate response. Instead, I focus on completing my cleanup, maintaining physical activity while organizing my thoughts.

"The arrangement for Violet's wedding is nearly complete," I say, changing topics. "I should deliver it to her preparation suite personally."

"Victor will accompany you," he agrees, the concession coming more easily than I'd anticipated. "Fifteen minutes of private conversation, as agreed."

I nod, relieved that this small mercy remains intact despite Richard's disruptive presence. "Thank you."

"Your compliance these past weeks has not gone unnoticed," he says, studying me with that assessing gaze.

We work in companionable silence for several minutes, placing tools in their proper storage, disposing of plant waste, preparing containers for the next day's work. The domestic rhythm feels almost normal, a dangerous illusion of partnership rather than captivity.

"My uncle mentioned your lunch was productive," Gage says finally, breaking the silence. "He found you 'refreshingly direct' compared to his usual social interactions."

"He was surprisingly forthcoming about your childhood," I reply, watching for reaction. "Though more through implication than direct statement."

That tell again—the slight flexing of his hand. "Richard has always excelled at saying much while revealing little. Whatever picture he painted is likely distorted by his own agenda."

"Which is?"

"Complex and primarily self-serving." Gage leans against the workbench, his posture more relaxed than usual.

"He mentioned your mother," I venture cautiously. "That you protected her."

Gage goes still, his expression hardening into something dangerous. For a moment, I fear I've pushed too far, crossed some invisible boundary that will result in renewed restrictions.

"My mother is not a topic for discussion," he says finally, voice controlled but with an undercurrent of genuine emotion. "With anyone. Including Richard."

I nod, accepting this boundary as something different from his usual strategic limitations. This feels personal rather than tactical—perhaps the most genuine response I've witnessed from him.

"I apologize," I say quietly. "I didn't mean to intrude on private matters."

He studies me for a long moment, as if assessing the sincerity of my apology. Whatever he sees appears to satisfy him, because his expression softens marginally.

"You're working with the black dahlias tomorrow?" he asks, deliberately changing the subject.

"Yes. They're reaching peak bloom." I accept the conversational shift, recognizing the olive branch for what it is. "I'm planning an arrangement for the front entryway."

"I look forward to seeing it." He straightens, professional distance returning to his posture. "I have meetings for the remainder of the day. We'll review final details for Violet's wedding at dinner."

I nod, expecting him to depart immediately as is his usual practice when concluding an interaction. Instead, he remains for a moment, seeming almost hesitant—an unprecedented break in his typically decisive movements.

"The flowers you arranged last week," he says finally. "The ones for the dining room. They lasted longer than expected. Mrs. Henderson commented on their remarkable resilience."

The comment surprises me. "Proper cutting techniques and water treatments extend bloom life significantly," I explain. "It's a matter of understanding what each variety needs to thrive despite being separated from its natural environment."

"Adaptation to changed circumstances," he observes. "A valuable skill in many contexts."

Before I can respond, he reaches out unexpectedly, his fingers gently brushing a strand of copper hair from my face. The touch is light, almost tender—I freeze in surprise.

"You had a leaf," he explains, showing me the small green fragment on his fingertip.

Our eyes meet, and the atmosphere between us shifts—a current of awareness that transcends our carefully maintained roles of captor and captive. His gaze drops briefly to my lips, and I find myself unable to move, caught in a moment.

Without warning, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine.

The kiss is gentle, questioning rather than demanding, entirely unlike the forceful possession I might have expected.

My body responds before my mind can intervene—an involuntary softening, a traitorous warmth spreading through my veins.

The contact lasts only seconds before I regain control, pulling back sharply and striking out without conscious thought. My palm connects with his cheek in a resounding slap that echoes through the conservatory.

Gage doesn't react with anger as I expect. He simply takes a step back, his expression unreadable as he accepts the rejection without retaliation.

"I apologize," he says formally, the brief moment of vulnerability already concealed behind his usual controlled facade. "That was presumptuous."

My hand tingles from the impact, my pulse racing with confusion and unwanted awareness. "Don't touch me like that again," I manage, hating the slight tremor in my voice.

He nods once, accepting the boundary without argument. "Dinner at seven," he says simply, then turns and walks away, leaving me trembling among the flowers.

When he's gone, I press my fingers to my lips, trying to understand my own reaction.

The hatred I feel is directed not at him in this moment, but at myself—at the brief but undeniable response my body had to his touch.

The physiological betrayal feels more threatening than any restriction he's placed upon me.

This is dangerous territory—far more perilous than surveillance systems or locked doors. If my body begins to respond to him, to find comfort or pleasure in his presence, how long before my mind begins to rationalize, to adapt, to accept?

I turn back to my flowers, forcing my hands to steady as I make final adjustments to the arrangement. The white rose at the center seems to mock me now—purity surrounded by darkness, innocence gradually corrupted by its environment.

No. I refuse that narrative. My body may react, but my will remains my own.

I straighten my spine, deliberately wiping all trace of his touch from my lips.

It won't work. I won't allow it to work.