Chapter 13
Lincoln
Living in this house with her is torture—the most exquisite kind of torture that exists. Imogen DeMotta is sweet and vulnerable,
yet she is equally dangerous and addictive. I made the costly mistake of touching her skin a few nights ago in the library,
and now the desire to do so again grows stronger with each passing moment. And no matter how much I tell myself I should avoid
her, I cannot.
I feel her presence whenever she’s anywhere near me, like a strange crackling of electricity directly beneath the epidermis
of my skin. I slip on my mask, the one I always keep in my pocket when I’m in the upper parts of the house now. By the time
she’s reached Pierre and I, as we sit on either side of my desk in the library, my face is concealed once more.
She glances at the chess set on the desk, and then at the two of us. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and a tiny flicker
of emotion crosses her face before she’s back to neutral. Unreadable. I’m not sure what I saw there. It looked like fear,
but from what I know of her, she is not easily scared. So, perhaps she’s nervous. “I need some things. I’m sorry I should
have asked for them sooner, but I haven’t been able to keep track of the dates since I got here.”
What dates?
Realization dawns on me. Of course, she’s been here for over three weeks already and I can think of one obvious reason she’d
need to keep track of the specific days. “Did you get your period?” I ask, saving her the trouble of saying it aloud.
“Yes.”
Pierre takes one of my pawns. “There are some things in your bathroom, mademoiselle.”
“I know. I saw them, but I can’t use tampons. I prefer pads.”
Pierre winces. “I did not think, sir,” he whispers. “I assumed all ladies used tampons, non?”
Imogen’s cheeks are flushing a light shade of pink now, and as adorable and intriguing as it is, I would prefer to spare her
any further embarrassment, in front of Pierre at least. “I’ll go into town and get some pads. Is there any particular brand
you prefer?”
She shakes her head. “As long as they’re the unscented kind, please.”
I push back my chair. The nearest town is at least a two-hour drive from here. “It will take me some time, but I’ll be back
as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, sir.” She gives me a polite nod and then slips away. Only when she’s out of the room and probably thinks she’s
far from my line of sight, do her steps falter and she lets her hand go to her stomach before sucking in a deep breath. If
I didn’t pay such close attention to her, I wouldn’t have noticed. I make a mental note to get her some Advil too.
The store clerk eyes me suspiciously, which I suppose I can’t blame her for. I look oddly out of place in this small-town
drugstore, dressed all in black and wearing a mask. Although since the whole COVID shit show, the world in general has grown
more accepting of face coverings.
“I have emphysema,” I tell her, noting her name badge. “Can’t risk getting sick, Alma.”
Her eyes narrow for an instant, but then she notices the giant pack of pads in my hand and something about that, or perhaps
it was me using her name, seems to warm her to me. “You shopping for your lady?” she asks, cracking her gum before flashing
me a smile.
“Yeah. These are the good kind, right?” I hold up the packet. I opted for the most expensive ones in the hopes that equates
to quality. While I have zero qualms about purchasing sanitary products, this is the first time I’ve ever actually done so
and I have no idea what I’m doing. There are also a confusing amount of products on offer.
She nods.
“And they’re not scented?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t sell those fancy scented ones around here. I mean who wants their hoo-ha smelling like a cheap
can of air freshener.”
I place the packets on the counter. “Can I get some Advil too?”
The cashier makes a sad face now. “Oh, does she have cramps? Poor honey. They’re the worst.” She grabs a pack of Advil from
behind the counter. “That’s the best thing about reaching a certain age, you know?” She winks at me like she’s letting me
in on a secret. “I hope she has lots of chocolate on hand too.” After that moment of unexpected kindness, she starts ringing
up the items on the old-fashioned register.
Chocolate, why the fuck would she need chocolate? My experience of women is generally limited to one night, and since I’m not averse to period sex, I’ve found an orgasm is
usually a decent cure for cramps, at least that’s what I’ve been reliably informed.
And now I’m getting a very inappropriate hard-on thinking about how orgasms would be a much more fun way of helping Imogen
with hers. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I grab a pack of Milky Ways and some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from the stand near the counter and add them to my order.
“Mine used to be every four weeks like clockwork until I had my first baby, and then . . .” Alma goes on to tell me about
her first pregnancy and the incredibly traumatic birth, and I half listen while I grab another two packs of pads. Might as
well stock up a little. I grab another few packs of chocolate too. “Do you have any diaries? Or calendars?”
“Not much call for them in May honey,” she says. “But you know we might have a calendar or two left over from January. Let
me go check.”
Alma disappears into the back room and a few minutes later emerges triumphantly, clutching two calendars. “I found these.
Take your pick.”
One is a charity calendar featuring the firefighters of Hillcrest, wherever the fuck that is, and the other has tulips on
the front. I opt for the latter, and tell myself it’s got nothing to do with Imogen staring at images of half-naked men who
aren’t me.
It’s late by the time I get back to the house and Imogen is in her room. Her door is half open but I knock and wait for her
to invite me in. She’s sitting up in bed, watching TV and the small smile on her face when she sees the brown paper grocery
bag in my arms makes listening to Alma’s incredibly vivid description of her hoo-ha blowing out worth every second.
“I got the things you needed.”
“Pads?” She holds out her hands and I take a pack out and toss them to her. Immediately she sprints to the bathroom and closes
the door. I stand awkwardly, still hovering by the doorway and then realize what a creep I’m being waiting for her to put
a pad on. I place the paper bag on her bed, ready to leave when she calls out. “I’ll be right out. Just one minute.”
And now I feel like I have to stay. No, I want to stay.
Because that sounded like she wanted me to and how could I possibly deny myself a chance to be in her company?
A minute later she walks out of the bathroom.
“Fixed now. Thank you, sir.” Her eyes dart to the bag on the bed, and no doubt she sees the candy peeking out of the top.
“Is that . . .” She stops speaking immediately, as though she remembers where she is and the grin that was about to light up her face disappears.
I hate that she won’t let herself be human around me. I might look like a monster, but I’m not. At least not for her. Never
for her.
On the other hand, I’m definitely a sick fuck for noticing her nipples beneath that T-shirt and wondering what it would be
like to kiss them, but I would never act on that impulse. She never has to worry about being touched when she doesn’t want
to be ever again. The decisions about her body will only ever be hers. She has nothing to be afraid of in this house and I
have no idea how to assure her of that.
I tip out the contents of the bag onto her bed. “There’s Advil in case you have cramps and the store lady told me that chocolate
is a thing. I don’t know much about that, but I got you a few different kinds.”
“And this?” She picks up the calendar and stares at it like it’s the most incredible thing in the world.
“A calendar. So you can track your cycle. For next time.”
Her slender throat works as she swallows, like she’s trying to choke down whatever emotion it is she’s feeling. But at least
she’s feeling something and I so desperately want that for her. I want her to feel a whole kaleidoscope of feelings and emotions.
To feel loved and have all of those things she never had before now right here. Even if that means I’ll have to endure the
torture of being close without touching her. “Thank you, sir.”
Fuck, I want to touch her though. Wrap her in my arms and tell her that she’s safe here, that I’ll never let anyone hurt her.
But if I hug her, then I might smell her hair or her skin.
She might melt into me, because she’s been trained to be obedient, and I might let her.
I might kiss her forehead and then her lips, then allow my hands to wander beneath her T-shirt.
I might do any one of the things I’d like to do to her whenever she’s near me.
and how can I be sure that’s what she wants and not simply what she thinks I expect from her. So instead, I leave.