Page 46 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T he morning sickness has finally subsided, replaced by an energy I haven't felt in months.

I stand before the full-length mirror in our bedroom, studying my reflection with new eyes.

At twelve weeks pregnant, there's the faintest curve to my abdomen—barely visible but unmistakably there. Proof of the life growing inside me.

I dress carefully—a silk blouse that skims my changing body, tailored pants that make me feel powerful, not just pretty arm candy. Today isn't about playing the obedient wife. Today, I reclaim my voice.

Gage sits at his desk in the study when I enter without knocking, reviewing what appears to be acquisition documents. He looks up, that assessing gaze I've grown so accustomed to softening when it lands on me.

"You look beautiful this morning," he says, setting aside his papers. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." I move to the chair across from his desk but don't sit. "We need to talk."

Something in my tone alerts him. His posture straightens slightly, that controlled businessman emerging. "Of course. What's on your mind?"

I take a breath, centering myself. "I want to renegotiate our arrangement."

The words hang between us. Gage's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight narrowing of his eyes.

"Renegotiate," he repeats carefully. "In what way?"

"Real autonomy. Not the illusion you've been providing.

" I move closer to his desk, my hands resting on its polished surface.

"I want to run Wildflower from the office three days a week.

I want to travel for business when necessary.

I want to see my friends without security hovering.

I want access to my own money without approval. "

He leans back in his chair, studying me with that penetrating intensity. "These are significant changes from our current arrangement."

"They are." I meet his gaze steadily. "But circumstances have changed, haven't they?"

His eyes drop briefly to my abdomen, where his child grows. "The pregnancy doesn't alter the fundamental nature of our marriage, Penelope."

"Doesn't it?" I lean forward, pressing my advantage. "Because I think it changes everything. Your child deserves a mother who isn't a prisoner. Who has agency, dignity, independence within the marriage rather than existing as your beautiful possession."

"You're not a prisoner?—"

"Gage." My voice cuts through his practiced deflection. "We're past the pretty euphemisms. I've been your captive, however gilded the cage. But this child changes the dynamic. I won't raise them to see this as normal."

"What exactly are you proposing?"

I straighten, feeling more like myself than I have in months.

"Freedom to run my business as I see fit.

Social independence—I can see friends, attend events, make plans without asking permission.

Financial autonomy over my personal accounts.

The right to travel for business or pleasure, with reasonable security but not surveillance. "

"And in return?"

The question catches me off-guard. I'd expected resistance, argument, perhaps even anger. Not negotiation.

"In return?" I repeat.

"What do I receive for these concessions? What assurance do I have that you won't use this freedom to disappear with my child?"

The directness of his concern surprises me with its honesty. No pretense about love or partnership—just the practical man who's never learned to trust.

"You have my word," I say simply.

He smiles at that. "Forgive me, but given your history of escape attempts, your word requires... reinforcement."

Heat flares in my chest. "Then what would you require?"

He's quiet for a long moment, fingers steepled as he considers.

"A formal agreement. Legal documentation of the new terms, including financial penalties for breach of contract.

Continued residence at the estate. Joint custody arrangements should the marriage end.

And..." He pauses, something almost vulnerable crossing his features.

"Your acknowledgment that you're choosing this life, not simply accepting it under duress. "

The last requirement stops me cold. He wants me to admit that I've begun to want him. To choose him.

I move around his desk slowly, noting how his eyes track my movement. When I reach him, I place my hands on the arms of his chair, leaning down until our faces are inches apart.

"And if I don’t like these terms?" I ask, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my lower lip. "Then we continue as we are. Comfortable, secure, predictable. But you'll always wonder what freedom might have felt like."

The touch sends unwelcome heat through me, but I don't pull away. "You're so certain of my feelings," I murmur, letting my lips brush his ear. "But what about yours? What do you get from this arrangement beyond ownership?"

His sharp intake of breath tells me I've hit something true. "What do you think I get?"

I pull back to study his face, seeing past the controlled mask to something more vulnerable beneath. "I think you're as trapped as I am. You've never had anyone choose you without something behind it. You want me to want you, not just submit to you."

"And do you?" he asks, voice roughened. "Want me?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with months of history, resistance, and unwilling attraction. I could lie. Instead, I tell him the truth.

"Yes." The admission costs me, but it's liberating too. "I hate that I want you. I hate how my body responds to you. I hate that you've made me crave things I never knew existed. But yes, I want you."

His pupils dilate at my words, hand tightening slightly on my face. "Then we have a foundation for renegotiation."

"Do we?"

He nods slowly. "I trust you to choose what's best for our child. And I believe you've come to understand that what's best for them includes their father."

He's right, though I'll never tell him so directly. The child growing inside me deserves better than a father who's only a memory or a stranger who visits on weekends.

"Fine," I say, straightening to my full height. "Draw up the papers. But I want my lawyer to review them."

"Agreed." He reaches for his phone, presumably to call his legal team. "Though there's one more condition."

I raise an eyebrow. "Which is?"

His hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me down until his lips brush mine. "Tonight, we celebrate the new arrangement. Properly."

The kiss that follows is different from his usual claiming—softer, more questioning, as if seeking permission rather than taking what he considers his. When I respond, parting my lips to allow him deeper access, his groan vibrates against my mouth.

"Is that a yes to my condition?" he murmurs against my lips.

"That depends," I reply, surprising myself with my boldness. "Are you prepared what you’re getting yourself into?"

His smile is dangerous. "Try me."

The legal paperwork takes three hours to draft and review.

I read every clause carefully, making modifications, demanding clarifications.

My independent lawyer—a fierce woman named Rebecca Torres who specializes in exactly these kinds of complex domestic arrangements—negotiates terms that would have seemed impossible months ago.

When we finally sign the documents, I feel like I'm taking my first real breath in months.

"So," Gage says, setting aside his pen, "how does freedom feel?"

"Beautiful," I answer honestly.

The moment the lawyer's footsteps fade down the hallway, the air between us crackles with electricity. We stare at each other across the desk, the signed papers scattered between us like a bridge we've just crossed.

"We're done pretending," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Completely done," he agrees, his eyes dark with hunger.

I move first, sweeping the documents aside as I lean across the desk toward him. He meets me halfway, his mouth crashing against mine with desperate intensity. The kiss is hungry, claiming, months of tension finally unleashed.

His hands tangle in my hair as he pulls me further across the desk, papers crinkling beneath me. I can taste the victory on his lips, the satisfaction of finally having me exactly where he wants me—not just physically present, but choosing to be here.

"I can't wait until tonight," he growls against my mouth, his control finally snapping. "I need you now."

He circles the desk with predatory grace, and before I can react, he's lifting me, setting me on the edge of the polished surface. His hands work frantically at my blouse, buttons scattering as he strips it away.

"Gage," I gasp, but any protest dies when his mouth finds my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

"Say you want this," he demands, hands cupping my breasts through my bra. "Tell me you're not just agreeing to our arrangement—tell me you want me."

"I want you," I breathe, arching into his touch. "God help me, I want you so much it terrifies me."

The confession unleashes something primal in him. He tears my bra away, his mouth immediately closing over one sensitive peak while his hands push my skirt up around my waist.

"Fucking perfect," he groans against my skin. "Every inch of you."

His fingers find the edge of my panties, and instead of removing them gently, he tears them away completely. The sound of ripping lace makes me gasp, heat flooding through me at his desperate need.

"I'll buy you more," he says roughly, echoing words from months ago. But this time, there's reverence beneath the dominance.

He drops to his knees between my spread thighs, and the sight of this powerful man kneeling before me sends liquid fire through my veins. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he looks up at me with eyes dark as midnight.

"Mine," he says simply, then his tongue is on me, broad strokes that have me crying out within seconds.

I fall back against the desk, papers rustling beneath me as he works me with devastating skill. His tongue circles my clit with precision before delving deeper, fucking me with long strokes that make my thighs tremble.

"God, Gage," I moan, my hands fisting in his hair. "Don't stop."

"Never," he growls against my slick flesh. "I'll never stop making you feel this way."

He slides two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. His mouth continues its assault on my clit, sucking and licking until I'm writhing beneath him.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice vibrating against my core. "Let me taste your pleasure, Penelope."

The orgasm crashes through me with violent intensity, my back arching off the desk as I cry his name. He doesn't stop, working me through every pulse, every aftershock, until I'm boneless and gasping.

Before I can recover, he's standing, turning me roughly until I'm bent over the desk, my hands braced against the polished wood. I hear the rasp of his zipper, feel the heat of him pressing against my entrance.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, voice strained with barely controlled need. "To drive me so fucking crazy I can't think straight?"

"Yes," I gasp, pushing back against him. "I want all of you. Every part."

He enters me in one powerful thrust, filling me completely, stretching me to my limits. We both groan at the exquisite sensation—he at my tightness, me at the feeling of being so thoroughly claimed.

"Christ, you feel incredible," he breathes, stilling for a moment to let us both adjust. "So tight. So perfect."

Then he begins to move, setting a punishing rhythm that has me crying out with each thrust. His hands grip my hips, angling me to take him deeper, to feel every inch of his possession.

"Mine," he growls, one hand sliding up my spine to grip my hair. "Say it, Penelope. Tell me who you belong to."

"Yours," I gasp, the admission torn from me as pleasure builds with frightening intensity. "I'm yours, Gage. Completely."

His pace increases, driving into me with desperate need. The sound of our bodies joining fills the office, primal and raw. I can feel my climax building, coiling tight in my core.

"I need to see your face," he says suddenly, withdrawing from me despite my whimper of protest.

He lifts me again, this time positioning me to face him as he sits in his chair, pulling me down to straddle his lap. The new position lets me sink onto him slowly, taking him inch by incredible inch.

"There," he breathes, hands gripping my hips as I begin to move. "Now I can see everything. Every expression. Every moment of pleasure."

I ride him with increasing intensity, my hands braced on his shoulders as I chase the release building between us. This position gives me control, and I use it, rolling my hips in ways that have us both gasping.

"Look at me," he demands when my eyes flutter closed. "I want to see you come apart. I want to watch you choose me."

I meet his gaze, seeing the hunger there, the possessiveness, but also something deeper—vulnerability, need, the desperate desire to be wanted for himself rather than his power.

"I choose you," I whisper, leaning down to kiss him as I move faster, harder. "I choose this. I choose us."

The words shatter his control. His hands tighten on my hips, helping me move as he thrusts up into me with increasing desperation. When my orgasm hits, it's with devastating force, my inner muscles clenching around him rhythmically.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, the sensation of my climax triggering his own. "Take it all. Take everything."

He buries himself deep as he comes, filling me with his release while his mouth claims mine in a kiss that tastes of possession and promise.

Afterward, we remain connected, both breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. His forehead rests against mine, and for a moment, the powerful businessman is gone, replaced by something more human, more vulnerable.

"So," I say eventually, my voice still shaky. "How does it feel to have a partner instead of property?"

His arms tighten around me. "Terrifying," he admits quietly. "And perfect."