COLLATERAL

THE EDGE OF OBEDIENCE

CHAPTER TWO — THE EDGE OF OBEDIENCE

The drive to the lake house should have been peaceful. The setting sun stained the sky with muted gold, the narrow road curled through quiet trees, and the water ahead glimmered like polished steel.

But nothing about the moment felt peaceful.

Not with Adrian beside me.

His presence filled the car the way smoke fills a room—quiet, suffocating, inescapable. He didn’t speak during the ride, didn’t glance at me, didn’t acknowledge my existence beyond the fact that he controlled every direction my life turned.

When the tires finally crunched over gravel and the lake house came into view, my breath caught.

It stood tall and silent, wrapped in cedarwood and shadows, more like a memory than a home. The lake stretched behind it, cold and unwelcoming, reflecting the storm-gray sky. The trees around us didn’t sway; they watched.

The world felt too still—like the moment before thunder breaks open the sky.

Adrian stepped out first. By the time I opened my door, he was already at my side, his hand on my lower back, guiding me toward the entrance.

“Inside,” he said simply.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His words carried the weight of a lifetime of unspoken rules.

I stepped in.

The scent hit me first—cedar, crisp and sharp, mixed with something metallic I couldn’t place. The interior was dimly lit, only a few lamps glowing against the wooden walls. It felt untouched, museum-like, as if the house were holding its breath.

A fireplace sat at the far end, unlit but stacked with wood. A large bed dominated the center of the room, its white sheets impossibly neat. Too neat. Too deliberate.

A chill crawled under my skin.

“Why are we here?” I asked quietly.

“For privacy,” Adrian replied.

The way he said it made the room seem smaller.

I froze.

Not because of the word itself, but because of the undertone—the quiet expectation, the calm dominance that didn’t need force to be terrifying.

“I’d rather stand,” I murmured.

Adrian turned. “Liana.”

Just my name. Spoken like a warning disguised as softness.

My knees bent before I realized I was obeying.

I sat at the edge of the bed, back straight, hands clasped tightly in my lap. My heart hammered against my ribs, trying to escape the cage my body had become.

Adrian approached slowly.

Not predatory.

Not aggressive.

Just… deliberate.

Every step was a reminder of how thoroughly he controlled the pace of my life.

When he reached me, he brushed a knuckle along my jaw—a gesture that looked gentle but felt like possession.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying again.”

His hand drifted to my chin, tilting my face up. I hated how quickly my breath faltered under his touch. Not because I wanted it, but because fear had conditioned my body to react before my mind could resist.

“Tell me why you’re afraid,” he said.

“You already know.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t like being told what he knew. Adrian preferred to be the one revealing truths, not receiving them.

He leaned closer until I felt the warmth of his breath. “I brought you here for a reason.”

My stomach tightened. “What reason?”

His gaze dropped briefly—to my throat, my shoulders, the tension in my posture—then rose back to my eyes.

“You’re holding too much inside.”

The room tilted slightly. That was not the answer I expected.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“You’re unraveling,” he said calmly. “And you’re trying too hard to hide it.”

My throat tightened. “Because showing anything around you is dangerous.”

Adrian’s eyes darkened, not with anger, but something quieter, heavier. “Liana… I’m not here to hurt you.”

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could swallow it. “You don’t have to hurt me physically. You’ve done enough without ever touching me.”

His expression flickered—like I had struck a nerve he didn’t know could exist.

“What do you think I want from you?” he asked.

The question was soft, but the hurt underneath it was sharp enough to catch.

“You want obedience,” I said. “Silence. You want me to be whatever the contract called for, whatever role makes your life easier.”

“And what role is that?”

I stared at him, the words heavy on my tongue.

“Collateral,” I whispered.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Adrian stepped back slightly, his expression unreadable for once.

Then he walked away—not far, but enough to give me space. Enough to unsettle me even more.

“Stand,” he said quietly.

My body moved before my mind could catch up.

He took my wrists—gently, shockingly gently—and lifted them. For a second, I thought he was going to bind them. My chest tightened in panic.

But instead…

he ran his thumbs over the tender skin, feeling the tension there.

“This is what I mean,” he said softly. “You react as if I’m going to break you.”

I swallowed hard. “Because you can.”

“But I won’t.”

The certainty in his voice made my breath stumble.

He guided my hands to his chest—not forcefully, not possessively, but slowly, almost cautiously.

“Feel,” he murmured.

I didn’t know what he wanted me to feel until I noticed it.

His heartbeat.

Steady.

Controlled.

But undeniably… human.

“You think I’m a monster,” he said.

“Aren’t you?” I whispered.

His chest rose once, sharply. “Maybe. But not in the way you imagine.”

He stepped even closer, his presence overwhelming without touching more than my hands.

“I brought you here because you’re slipping away from me,” he said. “And I don’t accept losing things that belong to me.”

My breath hitched. “I don’t belong to you.”

His eyes softened—not kindly, but with something like curiosity. “Then who do you belong to, Liana?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

Because I didn’t know.

He leaned in, his forehead almost touching mine.

“This fear you carry,” he whispered, “isn’t from me. Not the way you think. It’s from the life you’ve never been allowed to live.”

His voice was low, threading through my defenses.

“And that,” he murmured, “is what we’re confronting tonight.”

Not punishment.

Not dominance.

Not violence.

Something else entirely.

A shift.

A moment suspended between pain and something that could almost resemble tenderness—if Adrian Draven were capable of such a thing.

“Lie down,” he said.

The command made my pulse jump.

“Why?” I asked.

“To teach you to breathe again.”

The room felt too warm suddenly. Too close. Too charged.

But the difference was unmistakable.

He wasn’t trying to break me.

He was trying to peel back the fear he had spent years cultivating—without admitting he was the one who put it there.

Slowly, cautiously, I lay back against the pillows. Adrian’s gaze never left mine.

He reached for the bedside drawer.

Not for chains.

Not for restraints.

But for a small glass vial of essential oil and a soft cloth.

Lavender.

Not rust.

Not fear.

He poured a few drops on the cloth, the scent rising immediately—warm, calming, foreign in this cold house.

“Breathe,” he instructed.

“I don’t trust you,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to trust me,” he said. “Just breathe.”

He held the cloth near my face—not touching my skin, not forcing anything. His movements were careful, almost delicate, as if he feared startling me.

My chest rose slowly.

Fell slowly.

The trembling eased—not because the fear was gone, but because he wasn’t feeding it.

Adrian brushed a strand of hair from my forehead. “Good.”

The word felt like a strange kind of reward.

I closed my eyes for a moment.

Just a moment.

But in that brief silence, something shifted—

not between us

but inside me.

A spark.

A question.

A rebellion wrapped in breath.

When I opened my eyes again, Adrian was still watching me, expression unreadable.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered.

His answer was immediate.

“Because pain taught you everything you know,” he said softly. “Tonight, I’m teaching you something else.”

And for the first time…

I didn’t know whether to fear him more—

or trust him less.