Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)(14)

Unlike Chelsea, who needed to be broken down but left intact.

She’d tried to escape. Fury rose inside him. He breathed through it. Letting the air slowly out of his lungs, he tried to force his muscles to relax. But the tension wouldn’t leave him. It built, feeding on his memories like the fire fed on her clothes.

His rage couldn’t get the best of him. It needed to be shut down. Chelsea wasn’t the only one who needed to change her behavior. He hadn’t intended to beat her so badly, but his temper had taken over. He’d barely been able to tear himself away before he’d done permanent damage. He needed another outlet for his rage. He extended his forearm over the fire. The flames licked his skin. The stink of burning hair rose into his nostrils.

But the pain. The pain was a two-headed beast. Ugly as it roared through his arm.

Beautiful as it overran, then released his anger.

He pulled his arm away before the skin blistered. His forearm was red and sore and would be highly sensitive for a few days, a good reminder of the consequences of lack of control. His body would remember the punishment. His brain would learn to avoid it.

Control and reason must rule. He couldn’t let his emotions affect his actions. He needed to think clearly. To be objective. To adjust his plan according to Chelsea’s progress—not his anger.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Losing his temper, not being in control, had cost him too much already.

She would not get away. Her chain was secure. As a backup, he’d used a heavy-duty lock on the door. A wireless door alarm served as a third line of defense. If the door opened, he would get a notification on his phone app. He couldn’t be here all the time, but no matter where he was, he’d know if she escaped.

There was nothing to worry about. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Besides, he had expected her to rebel. It was part of his plan. If she didn’t test the boundaries, he’d be disappointed. And every mistake she made was an opportunity to discipline her, to shape her behavior. He needed a strong woman, not a weak, easily dominated one. But Chelsea would have to adjust her decision-making process. When she was presented with options, she should consider his wants instead of her own. Eventually, her instinctive reaction would be what does he want?

When he’d first laid eyes on her, he’d known she was the woman for him. His perfect mate, she would be Eve to his Adam.

For him, it had been love at first sight.

Karma, fate, destiny. The label didn’t matter. She was going to be his woman. It might take her a while to adjust to the idea, but when her conditioning was complete, she would submit to him as a woman should. And after she learned her lessons, he would cherish her forever.

Chelsea was smart. She was strong. She wasn’t going to be easy to break. But that’s exactly what he needed to do. He would take her to the root of who she was, and then he would cultivate the characteristics he chose. Like a well-tended hedge, her new personality would grow. And as it bloomed, he would shape it, trimming off her ugly traits and encouraging her desirable attributes until her character was amenable and pleasing to him.

It was simply a matter of working with nature rather than against it.

When a woman’s survival was threatened, she tapped into the base instinct that would keep her alive. All humans were programmed for survival. The key would be to find the right combination of discipline and love.

Pain and pleasure.

Stick and carrot.

Stick first, though. Always.

Consequences were the key to any training. They should be severe enough that the subject took no action without careful consideration of the teacher’s reaction. At first, she would do it to avoid punishment. She would learn to adapt her behavior to please him. As a reward, she’d be praised, fed, and kept warm. Eventually, she would associate his encouragement with comfort and his criticism with pain.

She would crave his approval like a drug.

He considered how quickly her shock, horror, and disbelief had shifted to acceptance. At first, she’d tried to shield herself from his blows, but then she’d realized it was pointless. He was in control. After she’d stopped defending herself, he’d come to his senses and stopped beating her.

Stick. Carrot.

How long would it take her to make the connection?

Would she remember all the rules he’d given her? Though the severity of the lesson was unintended, her progress pleased him.

He glanced back at the locked door. He’d left her naked, shivering, and cringing in pain. The cot and blanket sat just outside the door, waiting. At the first sign of acquiescence, the simple comforts would be returned, and step one in her transformation would be complete.

He tossed her socks onto the fire and added more dead leaves and dry sticks. The flames reached higher. The fire crackled.