Page 45 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

We spend hours reviewing books, discussing design directions for upcoming events, planning inventory for seasonal transitions. For these precious hours, I'm simply Poppy again—the florist, the creative, the businesswoman.

When it's time to leave, I feel genuinely refreshed rather than resentful of restrictions. Victor waits patiently by the car, checking his watch without comment when I emerge a few minutes past our agreed departure time.

"One more stop before we head back," I tell him, sliding into the back seat. "The shopping district on North Michigan Avenue."

He nods, pulling into traffic without questioning my request. The additional stop falls within acceptable parameters, it seems.

At the upscale baby boutique, I select several books on pregnancy and early childhood development, along with a small stuffed rabbit made of organic cotton—my first tangible acknowledgment of the life growing inside me.

On our way back to the estate, we pass the bus station—the same terminal where my first escape attempt began months ago, before my marriage. Victor tenses slightly as we approach, clearly anticipating potential complications.

"Pull over, please," I request quietly.

After a momentary hesitation, he complies, guiding the car to the curb across from the station entrance. "Mrs. Blackwood?"

"Just for a moment," I assure him, already opening my door. "I won't be long."

He exits the driver's side quickly, maintaining appropriate distance as I cross the street toward the station. Inside, nothing has changed—the same worn benches, the same electronic departure board listing destinations across the country.

I stand before it, watching city names scroll past. New York. Los Angeles. Miami. Phoenix. Places I once imagined might offer freedom from the cage I now voluntarily inhabit.

A woman approaches the ticket counter, purchasing passage to Denver with cash. The transaction is simple, anonymous. I could do the same right now—buy a ticket, board a bus, disappear before Victor could stop me.

My hand drifts unconsciously to my still-flat abdomen, protective despite the pregnancy being too early to show. Everything has changed in ways I never anticipated. The freedom I once desperately sought now seems hollow compared to the responsibility growing inside me.

Is this Stockholm syndrome—this gradual acceptance of my captor's values, this reframing of captivity as protection? Or is it something deeper, more genuine—a fundamental shift in perspective brought about by impending motherhood?

I turn away from the departure board, walking back toward the entrance where Victor waits, outwardly calm though tension radiates from his posture.

"Ready to go home?" he asks, the question carrying weight beyond its simple words.

"Yes," I reply, surprising myself with how true it feels. "I am."

As we drive away from the station, I watch it recede in the side mirror until it disappears from view—a symbol of possibilities I'm consciously setting aside. Not permanently, perhaps, but deliberately, with clear understanding of my choice.

Back at the estate, Gage waits in his study, pretending absorption in work though the tension in his shoulders reveals his awareness of exactly where I've been.

"The shopping district had some lovely boutiques," I say, placing the books and stuffed rabbit on his desk. "I thought we might start a collection."

He lifts the small toy, examining it with surprising gentleness before meeting my gaze.

"Victor mentioned your other stop," he says carefully.

"Yes." I don't pretend ignorance about the bus station. "I needed to see it again."

"And what did you see?" His question carries layers of meaning, probing for insight into my mindset, my intentions.

I consider my answer carefully. “It doesn’t matter anymore."

"It doesn’t matter?" The question emerges casually, but the intensity of his gaze betrays its importance.

"No." The word emerges with quiet certainty. "Not anymore."

He sets down the rabbit, crossing to where I stand. His hands frame my face with unexpected gentleness, thumbs tracing my cheekbones as he studies me with that penetrating intensity I've come to know so well.

"Is this surrender, Penelope?" he asks, voice dropping to that intimate timbre that still sends unwelcome heat through my veins.

I consider the question honestly, searching my own complex emotions for truth among tangled motivations.

"Not surrender," I say finally. "A different choice than I might have made before, but mine nonetheless."

He searches my expression for signs of deception, finding none. "For the child?"

"Partly," I acknowledge. "But not entirely."

This admission—that my changing feelings extend beyond maternal protection to something more complex, more personal—shifts something between us. He pulls me against him, arms encircling me with possessive tenderness.

"Whatever your reasons," he murmurs against my hair, "whatever name you give this change, know that I will protect you both with everything I possess."

The distinction matters, I realize.

That night, as Gage sleeps beside me, his hand resting possessively over my abdomen even in unconsciousness, I stare at the ceiling and consider the strange journey that has brought me here. From desperate captive to reluctant wife to expectant mother.

Is this surrender? Is it Stockholm syndrome? Or is it simply adaptation to a reality I can't change?

The answer eludes me.

In the darkness, I place my hand over Gage's where it rests against my abdomen. His fingers shift in sleep, intertwining with mine in unconscious possession.