Chapter 17
Imogen
I have wandered around this house for the past five days in something of a daydream, and I have no idea what’s wrong with
me. Because the daydreams are all about Lincoln Knight, and all of the things I’d like him to do to me. Something like the
things men did to women in the videos Larissa used to prepare me for life after the auction, and the very same things I could
never imagine myself wanting.
But my fantasies about Lincoln are different. In them, he’s tender and kind and not brutal or forceful. Surely that kind of
sex happens too?
It does in my head anyway, and now it’s all I can think about. And every time I do, it makes me wet between my thighs and
causes that deep ache in my abdomen to bloom. He was so sweet and caring a few nights ago, and it was in a way I don’t recall
ever experiencing before.
Larissa was my primary caregiver when I was a child, but even on her best days, I cannot recall her being quite so tender
as Lincoln was. The way he thought to get me a hot water bottle for my cramps, and how effective it was. Larissa was very
much of the suck-it-up-and-get-on-with-it school of pain relief. Not because she was unkind; it was simply her nature.
Yet Lincoln, a man I expect to be cruel and unfeeling, has shown me more tenderness and compassion in a few weeks than I have experienced in my whole life. And it’s making me confused, and more importantly, it’s distracting me from my primary goal—to get out of here.
Even now, when I know I should be exploring the house and looking for an escape, the memory of that night on my bed is so
clear and vivid, and I replay it frequently. Every subtle movement he made. The reassuring steady cadence of his breathing.
The heat from his body as it warmed my skin even without him touching me. Although for almost the entire time he was there,
I imagined what it would feel like to have him touch me.
By the time the movie was over, I found myself wondering what it would be like if he lost control and rolled on top of me,
taking what he paid for. I have no idea why he won’t, unless perhaps I’m not what he expected. Not what he wants. But if that
were the case, he’d discard me, wouldn’t he? I’m certain he wouldn’t be so nice to me if it were that simple. Most men who
participate in auctions from the Brotherhood would do much worse.
I wander into the library, hoping to find a book that will distract me. Or maybe an epic love story that will be enough to
sate my appetite for sex and romance, so that I can stop having inappropriate thoughts about the man who bought me at an auction!
I definitely need to be referred to a psychiatrist, don’t I? And if not for that, then for talking to myself and expecting
an answer.
The spot beside the fireplace, the comfy leather armchair and the reading table beside it, has become my space in this house.
A place so comfortable and familiar to me that it makes me feel warm inside even by thinking about it.
That I’ve been allowed to carve such a place for myself in this fortress where I’m held prisoner is very special to me.
I’m grateful and happy for every minute I get to spend there, and I’m also highly sensitive to any changes to my little corner of the world.
So I immediately spot the extra book on the reading table, and I’m certain that I didn’t leave it there. Has Lincoln been
enjoying my little spot by the fireplace too? Eager to discover what book he’s been reading and gather a little insight about
his taste in literature, I hurry over to it.
I see the title first and my steps falter until I almost stumble over my own feet. How did that get here? I have scoured this
library and I know a copy of that book wasn’t in here before today.
I trace my fingers over the gilded gold lettering and a sob bubbles up from my chest. I scold myself. Emotion is weakness. Still, my lip wobbles and I bite down on it to stop myself from crying, but a rogue tear spills down my cheek anyway. My
hand trembles when I pick up the book, running my palm over the soft green leather cover before holding it briefly to my chest,
close to my heart where this story has lived since I was a child.
Then I bring it to my nose, inhaling the familiar scent of old paper, and a hundred memories come flooding back to me. Some
horrible but mostly good. Reading beneath a chestnut tree while butterflies danced in the tall grass. Hiding beneath the covers
in a thunderstorm with a flashlight while I pretended to be Mary on her adventures with Colin and Dickon. No matter how dark
or desperate I would feel sometimes about my life and the fate that awaited me, this book would take me away from it all.
It was my life raft in any storm. I open the cover to the first page and find it inscribed with black cursive writing. The
words cause a physical ache deep in my chest.
For Imogen. Who is braver, stronger and more courageous than any character from any story ever written.
More tears burn behind my eyes. Lincoln did this?
He remembered our conversation about my love for this book.
He thought enough about me to obtain a copy and write this message inside.
While he was incredibly caring toward me the other night, this might be the kindest and most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me. Ever.
His footsteps alert me to his presence as he walks into the room. They’re unmistakable to me now, much heavier and slightly
faster than Pierre’s. I pivot to face him, clutching the book in my hands.
“Did you do this for me, sir?”
He’s at his desk already, opening up his laptop. “Do what?” he asks, not gracing me with any eye contact. So I drift closer,
until I’m standing in front of his desk.
Eventually he looks up.
“The book?” I ask.
His right eye twitches. “Yes.”
“It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you.”
He shrugs. “My antiques dealer came across a copy and I recalled you telling me it was your favorite.”
“It is.” I’m still overwhelmed with emotion. Gratitude. Happiness. Not to mention the lingering fantasies of him on top of
me leaving me confused and excited at the same time.
My eyes wander over his torso, from the hard muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt to his forearms covered with
dark ink and thick veins that stretch all the way to his knuckles, leading to his powerful hands. I recall how tenderly he
pressed the hot water bottle onto my stomach and wonder how gentle he’d be with the rest of my body. How skilled those hands
would be at touching me in the places I’m aching to be touched.
He’s pretending like this isn’t a big deal, but we both know that it is, and I wish I could understand why he hides his true self from me.
Not the man behind the literal mask, but the one behind the other mask he wears—the one not made of fabric or ceramic, but of pain and guilt.
I wonder if he knows that he doesn’t need to wear either of his masks around me, not his literal or his metaphorical one.
I see him anyway, even if he doesn’t realize that yet.
But the words he wrote inside the book don’t fit with the cold and detached man sitting in front of me right now.
I suspect that is the man the whole world gets to see.
But this is not the one who wrote those beautiful words, or the same man who sat with me because I was scared of a little thunder.
I expect that version of him is reserved for a few select people.
Perhaps only for me? I hope so. It makes me feel special to know that I get a glimpse of that different part of him.
“The inscription is beautiful, sir. Did you write it?”
The muscles of his jaw twitch visibly beneath his mask. “Yes.”
My heart is racing. Stomach fluttering. “Did you mean it?”
“I’m not in the habit of writing things I don’t mean, Imogen.”
He thinks I’m all those things! Now it’s not only my heart racing, but it feel like there’s actual lightning zapping through
my veins. I want to thank him again, but I’m afraid if I speak, I might let all these feelings that are swirling around inside
me out. Emotion is weakness. But when Lincoln Knight does things like this, it makes me wonder if that weakness is a price
worth paying.
His dark eyes are burning into mine, making heat sear through my core. That wet sticky feeling is happening between my legs
again and I’m sure my pussy is pulsing with its own heartbeat. I squeeze my thighs together to try and stop the feeling, but
it has no effect at all. Surely this is it and he’s going to leap across his desk and kiss me—the girl he thinks is strong
and brave and courageous. After what feels like forever, he speaks. “Is there anything else, Imogen?”
And just like that he crushes the flicker of hope burning inside me. “No, sir.”
He drops his head and goes back to his laptop. With my book clutched in my hand, I go to my second favorite place in this
house, my very own secret garden.
Pierre is sitting outside at the small table and chairs when I get there, his face tilted toward the sunshine and his eyes closed.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle.”
I sit with him. “Good afternoon, Pierre.”
“It is a beautiful day, is it not?”
“It certainly is.” I glance around the garden and wonder if he has any idea how overgrown it is. So many colors and scents
all fighting for their own space. The yellow chocolate daisies struggling to flower through the tangles of bright green ivy,
and the clematis being strangled by the fleabane. I imagine it was truly beautiful once and it seems a shame to not at least
try and bring a little order to it, while maintaining it’s beautiful wildness. “Does Mr. Knight have a gardener?”
Pierre scoffs. “Non. Never.”
“Do you think he would mind if I did a little gardening? I could clear some space to grow vegetables and maybe some fruit.”
“I already grow vegetables.” He jerks his head to a few raised beds which also appear to be overgrown.
“I could make a little more room? Now that I’m here and there’s an extra mouth to feed?”
“There is no need, mademoiselle. You do not need to work to earn your keep.”
“It wouldn’t be work. I’d enjoy it.”
He hums, seeming distracted today. It seems there’s something on his mind and I’m worried it’s something to do with me. Have
I been too overt in my mooning over his boss? Maybe it’s the inscription written in the book in my hands that makes me feel
bold enough to ask. “Do you wish I weren’t here, Pierre?”
He smacks his lips together and makes a sighing noise. “Ah, I will admit, I would rather you were not here, mademoiselle.”
That hurts more than I thought it would, or at least more than I should have ever allowed it to.
But I thought Pierre genuinely cared for me, and to find out he would rather I weren’t here makes my heart break a little.
Or perhaps I’m still reeling from being so easily dismissed by Lincoln.
Either way, I’m hurt and I blink back tears and scrub at the few that I allow to fall with the sleeve of my sweater.
“That does not mean I do not enjoy your company,” he adds.
I don’t need sympathy though, not from him or Lincoln. I tip my chin and roll back my shoulders. “You don’t have to say that,
Pierre. I’m used to being places I’m not wanted.”
He snorts a laugh. “Oh! Not wanted? If you were not wanted, then you would not be here. Non?”
Perhaps there’s a ring of truth to that. “But you don’t want me here?”
“That I would rather you were not here does not mean the same thing as not wanting you here, mon chou. Per’aps, I simply believe you would be better off elsewhere.”
I disagree. Especially when I think about the places I could have ended up instead. I remember all too well the vile catcalls
and disgusting comments made by the other men at the auction, and the reason all fifty women before me were paraded around
like objects, to be used and abused. And so I feel incredibly lucky to be here in this house with Pierre, and even Lincoln,
who despite his mask, his reputation, and his apparent apathy toward me at times, has shown me nothing but kindness.
Why does a man like that even go to an auction? It doesn’t fit the Lincoln I’ve come to know at all. And as guarded as he
is, I’ve seen enough between the cracks of his facade to recognize his true nature, and that’s not a man who buys women for
sport. So why does a man like him pay ten million dollars for a girl like me?
“Why does Mr. Knight want me here?”
Pierre shakes his head. “You will have to ask him that, mon chou.”
Perhaps I would if he weren’t so closed off. Or if he didn’t walk away or dismiss me every single time I get close to him, physically or otherwise. “What does mon chou mean?”
His lips twitch in a smile. “Little cabbage.”
I let out an unexpected burst of laughter and it feels so good. I can’t remember the last time I laughed out loud. “Cabbage?
It sounded so sweet but you actually just called me a cabbage?”
His smirk grows wider. “It is sweet. Where I am from, it is a term of affection.” He reaches out and pats my forearm. “You
are very much welcome here, mon chou. But I wish for you that you were somewhere living a life full of love and happiness.”
A life full of love and happiness hasn’t ever been a goal for a girl like me. Survival has always been my primary objective.
And freedom my ultimate prize, for then I may have a chance at some peace at least. And freedom means leaving this place.
Pierre pats my hand and I feel an overwhelming rush of affection for him.
Love and happiness? I might not have much experience in those things, but I’m sure I’ve never experienced them in as much
abundance as I do right here in this house. Do I give up my dream of freedom for the promise of the former? It’s not the most
terrifying prospect in the world to me, especially not given what I imagined my future would be just a few short months ago.
“Perhaps I could live that kind of life here?”
He simply smiles and says, “Per’aps.”