Chapter 10
Imogen
Lincoln must have returned in the middle of the night. I knew he was here before I saw him or even heard his voice. The house
smelled of him—of rain and leather and freshly turned earth. I don’t know how I feel about him being back here. Pierre and
I seem to have settled into something of a routine, and I’ve found a reassurance in knowing how the day would play out. Now
that Lincoln is back, that comfort is gone, and he left so soon after my arrival that I have no idea what the atmosphere in
the house will be like with him here.
“What would you like for breakfast, mademoiselle?” Pierre asks me, as he does every morning when I walk into the kitchen.
I consider trying something else. Perhaps the waffles I saw in the freezer. Or the bacon I saw in the fridge. One day, I definitely
will, but maybe it’s Lincoln’s return which is making me feel uneasy and out of my comfort zone again, so I choose familiarity
and order—oatmeal.
Like he’s done the past six mornings, he wrinkles his nose in disgust and then he mutters something in French.
“Why oatmeal?” Lincoln’s voice comes up behind me, washing over me and sending a shiver down my spine.
I wish I didn’t have this kind of response to just his voice, but it’s so deep and gruff—always laced with a hint of danger.
There were always men at my grandfather’s house, and I spent a lot of time in their company, albeit being seen and not heard, but none of them ever affected me in the same way that Lincoln Knight does.
I’m not sure why I seem to find some kind of thrill in the way his presence sets me on edge, but what I do know is that it’s confusing.
He goes to the counter and pours himself a coffee. He’s wearing his mask like usual and all that’s visible are those intensely
dark eyes beneath his thick crop of black hair.
“It’s healthy and nutritious,” I reply to his odd question. Why not oatmeal?
“Interesting,” he mutters. Then he turns to Pierre. “I’ll take some eggs and toast in my study.”
“Of course, sir.”
My stomach growls. Eggs and toast sounds good. Better than oatmeal, but I keep my lips clamped shut. I’ve asked for oatmeal
and that’s what I’ll eat. If I ask to change now, I could look spoiled. Or weak, which would be even worse.
Without another word, Lincoln leaves and heads to his study. As soon as he’s gone, Pierre says, “I’m aware you’ve enjoyed
exploring many of the rooms of the house this past week, mademoiselle.”
I freeze. My heart stops beating. I have indeed tried every door in this house, with the exception of Pierre’s quarters, which
are out of bounds, and discovered all of them but the door to the basement to be unlocked. I found nothing but empty rooms
or ones filled with old dusty furniture. But I had no idea Pierre knew I’d been doing that, assuming I’d been quiet enough
to avoid detection. How the hell did he know, and what is he planning on doing about it?
Panic surges through my core and I brace myself for whatever punishment is surely headed my way.
But Pierre continues busying himself with preparing breakfast. “You will have no doubt noted the absence of a designated study, and that is because Mr. Knight’s study is the library, where you enjoy spending most of your days.
” His voice retains its usual calm and pleasant tone.
So he’s not going to reprimand me for snooping? Relief floods my chest and I breathe again. Of course he’s not. I was specifically
told that I could enter any room of the house that wasn’t locked, but I still felt like I was doing something wrong when I
was poking through old writing desks and antique dressers. My relief is followed swiftly by disappointment. “Does that means
I should stay out of the library now?”
Pierre shakes his head. “Non. Not unless he has prohibited you from going in there?”
I recall the conversation I had with Lincoln before he left. “No, he said I could use it as I please.”
Is it odd that he gave me permission to share his study with him—his personal space? The library is big but we’d still be
in the same room, sharing the same oxygen. Why on earth does the thought of that intrigue me so much? Because he holds the
key to me getting out of here, that’s why. Nothing to do with how mysterious and brooding he is. Nothing at all.
“Then it’s not off-limits, mademoiselle. However I would avoid the room when Mr. Knight is dining, as he will have to remove
his mask to eat. But I simply told you so you would not be alarmed to find him there when you are reading.”
It’s strange that he wears a mask even in his own home. “Does he always wear a mask?”
“When he is around other people, yes.”
“But not you?” The words leave my mouth before my brain is engaged.
He turns to me, a half smile on his face. “Really, mademoiselle? What need would he have for a mask in front of a man who
cannot see his own hand in front of his face?”
I cover my eyes and feel a blush warming my cheeks. It’s easy to forget he’s blind when I spend so much time with him. “Of course not. I didn’t think about what I was saying. Sorry, Pierre.”
He chuckles softly and then goes back to making breakfast. I want to ask why Lincoln wears the mask, but think better of it.
I’ve heard the rumors about him being horribly disfigured and I expect it has something to do with that. Perhaps he has no
skin on the lower half of his face—only teeth and bone where lips and flesh should be? Perhaps fangs in place of teeth. Maybe
Lincoln Knight truly is a devil.
Whatever lies beneath that mask, I’d like to tell him he has no need of it around me. The kind of devils I fear are not terrifying
because of how they look, but because of the kinds of sick and perverted things they like to do to women like me. And by those
measures, Lincoln hasn’t proven himself to be a devil at all.
At least not yet.
I took my book into the garden today instead, purposely avoiding the library and allowing Lincoln his space. Despite him offering
me free use of the room, I’m not sure how he’d actually respond to me being in there. Lost in the tribulations of a new novel
that’s quickly becoming another favorite, Jane Eyre, and the English countryside, I read all day, until the sun was low in the sky. I definitely didn’t imagine myself as Jane,
nor Lincoln as Mr. Rochester. No. Absolutely not.
Pierre brought me a lunch of sandwiches and fruit and he sat with me for a few moments, but other than that my only company
have been Jane and Mr. Rochester.
There’s a chill in the air now, and the cool breeze dancing over my skin makes me shiver.
I wonder if Lincoln is still in the library, or whether he’s disappeared to the basement.
That was the only door I found locked—protected by one of his high-tech fingerprint systems. What could he possibly be hiding down there?
Perhaps he is just like Mr. Rochester, only he’s hiding a dirty secret in his basement rather than his attic.
Another shiver whispers over the back of my neck, and this time not from the cold.
What does he have down there?
Lincoln Knight is a man I should stay far away from, but something about him seems to draw me to him. Perhaps an innate curiosity
to know more about the mysterious man who bought me, yet doesn’t seem to want me near him. The man who loves apple pie and
who has earned the loyalty and apparent devotion of such a kind man as Pierre. The Lincoln whose voice makes my legs feel
strangely rubbery.
Lincoln is on his way out of his study as I’m entering, and I almost bump into him. Instinctively, I stumble back a few steps
in order to avoid the contact, my heart racing wildly. My feet slip, and I almost trip over myself, but he reaches out and
catches me before I do, his large hands easily circling my wrists.
As quickly as he grabbed me, he lets me go, leaving only the heat of his touch seared on my skin. “Are you okay?” His voice
is a deep throaty growl.
I find myself looking up into his face, staring at the thick black mask and those intensely dark eyes, the ones that are scrutinizing
me so intently now.
Oh, no! I messed up. I showed fear.
But was it fear that made me stagger back from his touch? It felt the same—sent my pulse racing and adrenaline coursing around
my body. But it felt different too. Dangerous. The same fluttering feeling deep in my belly from when I used to ride my bike
down the steepest hill on my grandfather’s estate. I’d close my eyes and freewheel all the way to the bottom, picking up speed.
Never knowing if I’d fall, or veer off course and crash into one of the nearby trees.
I fell off many times, but it didn’t stop me doing it over and over again.
Amid all of the monotony of the rules I had to follow, and the unending task of proving myself worthy of the sacrifice my grandfather made when he saved my life, it was how I reminded myself I was still breathing—that I still had something left to breathe for.
This feels like that kind of fear, the kind you seek out because it makes you feel alive.
Only here, with Lincoln, it’s a million times more intense.
“I’m okay, sir. I was distracted.”
His eyes narrow. “You didn’t come into the library today.”
Have I made a mistake? Did he expect me to join him? “I was enjoying the garden, sir. The weather was beautiful today.”
I let my eyes wander a little, over his neck and the thick vein pulsing in the underside of his jaw. Scars peek out from beneath
the collar of his T-shirt on his right side, gnarled and twisted like the knotted brambles that cover this estate, all of
them covered by the shadowy ink that winds around the base of his throat. He breathes heavily, making his muscles strain against
the black fabric of his T-shirt. Despite knowing that it would be wrong to touch him, I yearn to trace my fingertips over
his chest and see if it’s made of iron or flesh. To trail them up his neck, feel his scars, remove his mask and see the man
who lies beneath. I have never touched anyone the way I’d like to touch Lincoln, and it makes me feel equally excited and
anxious.
“Beautiful indeed,” he says, his voice still deep but tinged with something that wasn’t there before. If I knew what desire
sounded like, I would be sure that’s what it was. The longing in his tone gives me that feeling again, the fluttering tightening
deep in my core. Like I’m freewheeling headfirst into something inherently dangerous, yet thrilling all the same.
He lifts his hand to my face, and his fingertips almost brush my cheek—so close that I feel the ghost of them on my skin.
For just a heartbeat they hover there while I stare into his eyes and brace myself for the inevitable, where he shows his
true colors and takes whatever it is he wants from me.
But then the lingering warmth from his almost-touch is gone, and his hand drops to his side.
“Good night, Imogen.” Any tenderness in him is gone now too. He’s cold and detached again as he walks past me and down the
hallway. My gaze follows his retreating back, wondering what might have happened if I had said something more. What if I had
done as I had when I was a child, embraced the thrill of excitement, closed my eyes and raced down that hill? Leaned into
his touch instead of standing frozen to the spot. Would I have veered off course, crashed completely, or would it have been
the most exciting ride of my life?
What if that’s what he expected me to do? Is that the kind of woman he paid ten million dollars for?
I wish I knew the answer, because it would make my life a whole lot easier, wouldn’t it?
Or perhaps easy isn’t the word. My life could never have been described as easy. But it was safe. Regimented. I always knew what was expected
of me and when. My life had purpose. I had goals. Keep myself pure. Learn how to survive life after the auction. Take happiness
in the smallest of pleasures. And I always knew exactly what I had to do to achieve those goals. I learned to take a life
that could so easily have been unfulfilling, and color it with meaning and purpose.
Yet here, I find myself with no such meaningful purpose. No daily tasks to check off my list. No need to survive the daily horrors of abuse and degradation that I was taught to expect. Those same horrors that I imagine all fifty of the
women who were sold before me are currently enduring. Why was I the lucky one? And how strange to consider myself lucky, given
the circumstances I’m faced with. But compared to my counterparts, I’m extremely fortunate and I know that. Instead of facing
torture and horror, I’m finding pockets of happiness in almost every moment, so many that it’s becoming increasingly difficult
to focus on my ultimate goal—my freedom.
Because, ironically, within the walls of Lincoln’s fortress, I find myself with a kind of autonomy I’ve never had before.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve been expected to be nothing but me.
And that’s the kind of freedom I’ve secretly yearned for, but never even dared to consider.
Trouble is I’ve been who they wanted me to be for so long I’m not sure who I actually am.
I feel bolder here, but I’ve also never felt so confused and
conflicted as I do in this house.
And I’ve also never felt more alive.