Chapter 22
Lincoln
After I leave Leah at the safe house, I find a hotel, shower and sleep for twelve hours. I decide to drive back from Kentucky
the next day, and the closer I get to home, the more anxious I get to see Imogen.
Pierre’s name flashes on the screen in my car and that simmering anxiety tangles itself into a knot in my chest. He rarely
contacts me when I’m away and instinctively I know something must be wrong. I answer his call and immediately his voice fills
the car.
“Imogen has hurt herself, sir.”
That knot of anxiety splinters out, wrapping itself around my heart.
“Hurt herself how?”
“She broke a glass and one of the shards must have cut her. But she’s bleeding profusely. I believe the wound needs stitches.
I would try, but I’m not as steady handed as I once was.”
“It’s okay, Pierre,” I assure him. It’s not his lack of sight which makes him so ill-equipped for the job. He’s stitched me
up many times since being blinded, but that was before his hands were destroyed by arthritis.
Panic grips me. He has no way of knowing how badly injured she is.
Perhaps she’s downplaying it. Hoping to lose so much blood that I have no option but to take her to hospital—it’s a risky strategy for her to employ, but one I would no doubt try myself if I suspected it might work.
It won’t. I have a skilled surgeon I could call upon if necessary.
I contemplate calling him anyway, just in case he’s needed, but decide against it.
Money buys a lot of silence, but I’d prefer as few people as possible to know of her existence.
“I’m already on my way back. I’ll be there within the hour.
Keep pressure on the wound and try to minimize the bleeding as much as you can. ”
“Of course, sir.”
I run through the house so fast that my shoes slip on the polished tile floors. When I reach my study, I falter. Seeing her
sitting on the chair, her hand wrapped in a blood-soaked washcloth, looking so pale and vulnerable . . . I am almost knocked
off my feet by the wave of guilt I feel.
She’s staring at me, mouth gaping in shock, and that’s when I realize that I’m not wearing my mask. This is the first time
she’s ever seen my face. I push down the rush of emotions that floods my chest, ignore the voice inside my head that tells
me how repulsed she must be to have to look at my scars, and I drop to my knees in front of her.
“I have everything you need, already prepared, sir,” Pierre says.
She holds out her injured hand, her gaze finally dropping from my face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so clumsy, I just . . .”
“It’s okay. I’m here. We’ll get you fixed up.
Okay?” I keep my voice calm and reassuring while internally I’m building myself up to confront how bad a state her hand may be in when I unwrap this cloth.
She told Pierre it was just a cut, but she’s tougher than most and has likely been conditioned to downplay her pain all her life.
I unwrap the washcloth slowly, and it’s a relief when I see only one finger has been cut. It’s a deep gash though. Fresh blood
is still oozing from the wound.
“This is going to need a couple of stitches. Okay?”
She nods, her eyes back on my face now. Wide and unblinking. Staring at my scars. I choke down the discomfort and focus on
her. “I have nothing for the pain other than a little Scotch. Would you like Pierre to bring some?”
“No. I can take it. I’ve had stitches before. In my knee.” She lifts her knee as though to show me, but I’m too focused on
her bleeding finger. “I had no anesthesia then either.”
I want to ask why that was, but I suspect I already know. Her grandfather and the Brotherhood kept her a secret. Taking her
to a hospital would have alerted the outside world to the fact she was still alive. And now here she is, bleeding all over
my study floor and I find myself spiraling into a panic. I can disembowel a man without breaking a sweat, but seeing her bleeding
and injured is terrifying.
I grab some alcohol from the tray Pierre has laid out on my desk and carefully take hold of the tip of her injured finger.
“This will sting,” I warn her.
“I know.” She swallows and then visibly braces herself for what’s to come. Although she winces when I pour the alcohol over
the wound, she doesn’t pull away or flinch. I push away any thoughts of why she might be so accustomed to pain and focus on
patching her up, working as gently as possible when I pierce her delicate skin with the needle.
It takes five stitches to close the wound and at least they’re neat enough that the scar won’t be overly visible. She keeps
her eyes on the floor the entire time, refusing to look at my face. A choice I can hardly blame her for, given that I can
barely stand to look at it myself.
I cut the thread and place the instruments on the tray for Pierre, who quickly takes them from the room, leaving Imogen and me alone.
She remains seated on the chair, looking so small and vulnerable that I want to wrap her in my arms and promise her the world.
“I think I’ll take a little of that Scotch now,” she says, still refusing to look at me.
I grab the bottle along with two heavy tumblers, pouring each of us a measure. She takes hers from me, the fingertips of her
good hand brushing over mine and sending shock waves along my hand and forearm. She sniffs the liquor first, then wrinkles
her nose in disgust.
I wonder if she’s ever tasted Scotch before. It wouldn’t surprise me that her puritan grandfather never allowed liquor in
the house. Before I can ask her, she downs the entire contents of her glass in one gulp. She screws her eyes closed and sticks
out her tongue, making a gagging noise. “Oh, dear god that’s disgusting.” She rubs her throat. “And why is it burning?”
I feel my lips curving in a smirk. “Have you ever drank Scotch before?”
She shakes her head, eyes streaming.
“Any kind of whisky?”
“No. No hard liquor ever.”
“Never?”
“I wasn’t allowed alcohol. I did have one glass of champagne the day I turned twenty-one, but I didn’t really care for it.”
Her upbringing intrigues me greatly, but I’m hesitant to pry for fear of what I might accidentally reveal, or what memories
I might make her relive. From what I’ve gleaned so far, her upbringing was very strict and regimented. Her father’s was too
as I recall. It was one of the reasons he was so eager to join the Brotherhood. Still, I’m too intrigued not to ask. “What
other things have you never tried, Imogen?”
The question was intended entirely innocently, but from the way she looks up at me through her darkened lashes, I’m not sure it landed that way. And now I have no doubt we are both thinking about the one very obvious thing she’s never done.
I put an end to that avenue of conversation by adding, “Did you go to regular school?” The answer is one I can already guess,
and she confirms my suspicion by shaking her head.
“Never had friends. Went to parties. Or the mall. Or . . .” her slender throat works as she swallows. “Anything really. You
could say I was very . . .” she considers her next word very carefully “ . . . protected.”
I would say she was hidden away and kept as a prisoner, and I’m also aware of the irony that I feel any anger about that fact,
given that I’m currently doing the same. While I might tell myself it’s for her protection too, I wonder if she would believe
me so readily. I’m desperate to know more, but I’m cautious about unpicking the layers of her psyche when she doesn’t yet
trust me.
Instead I brush my fingertips over the bandage on her hand. “How is this feeling now?”
“It’s okay.” Her eyes linger on my face. On my scars.
Instinctively I hide them, dropping my head and staring at the droplets of her blood on the parquet floor. I usually reserve
the privilege of seeing my scars for the people I’m about to kill. What if she heard the urban legends of the monster who
betrayed the Brotherhood, and the scars he bears for his sins? And what if that’s enough for her to recognize who I really
am? Or what if she doesn’t know any of that, but she’s repulsed by me anyway?
She jumps up from the chair. “Lincoln.” Her voice is soft and warm, like molasses in the summertime. “I’m sorry if I made
you feel uncomfortable.” I refuse to look at her, so she takes a step closer. “I’ve just never seen your face before.”
“I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again,” I snarl, allowing some of my anger to bleed out into my tone.
“What? No!” Her cry is pained. “Why would you do that?”
I lift my head and let her see the face she’s so desperate to stare at. My hands ball into fists, trying to keep any more of the guilt and shame inside me from spilling out. “Why wouldn’t I, Imogen?”
Tears fill her bright green eyes. “Because I like seeing your face. It makes you look more . . . human.” She whispers the
last word.
Is she fucking with me? “Some would say it makes me look more monster than human.”
“No.” She shakes her head vehemently. “So, you have some scars. We all do. Some of them are just on the inside and easier
to hide. I’m sure they all make us feel like monsters sometimes.” The pain in her voice is so acute I can almost feel it.
Her sadness and despair wash over me. This is the most she’s ever willingly revealed of herself. What scars does my little
angel hide inside?
“Except that I am actually a monster.”
She takes a half step toward me. Now we’re so close I can smell the sweet scent of her skin. Feel warmth radiating from her
body, like the heat from an open flame. I suppress a growl, filled with need and desire. It’s wrong to want her the way I
do. Sinful to think about taking her innocence and defiling her body. She doesn’t know who I really am, and if she did . . .
“You’re not a monster to me, Lincoln.”
Tentatively, she reaches up and brushes the fingertips of her good hand over my scars. I flinch at her touch, an electric
current passing through my entire body.
She bites on her lip and pulls her hand back like she’s been burned, but not far enough from me that I don’t still feel the
lingering warmth of her touch. “I’m sorry, I should have asked your permission.”
I remain rooted in place, hypnotized by her bright green eyes, until once again her fingertips skate delicately over my scarred flesh.
Tracing the thick twisted knots and ugly reddened welts as if they’re the key to discovering something in me.
Nobody has touched my scars since the surgeon who patched me up and this feels like it’s too much, but not enough.
Her touch is a balm to my tortured soul and I never ever want her to stop.
She inches closer. “I think your scars are perfect,” she says, no hint of revulsion or sarcasm.
My throat constricts. “Perfect how?”
“Perfect because they’re a part of who you are. And despite what people say, and what you might believe, you are not a monster,
Lincoln Knight. Trust me, I would know.”
I hate that she knows men who are worse than I am, but that doesn’t make me any better. “Don’t be fooled by my name, Imogen.
There is nothing honorable about me.” And there is definitely nothing honorable about the way my dick is growing harder with
each second she has her hands on me. Nor any of the filthy things I’m thinking about doing to her right now. I could show
her how much pleasure even a monster like me could make her feel, and how much pleasure can be found in sin. But nothing about
her pleasure should ever be sinful; it should be glorious and without shame. And that is why it can’t ever be with me.
“I never said you were honorable. Although . . .” She chews on her luscious lower lip, until jealous need spikes inside me.
I want to nibble on her lip—on all the parts of her. “You have acted very honorably since my arrival, sir. Nothing but a single
touch of your thumb on my skin before you stitched my wound today.”
Does she think about that night in the library too, when I was a whisper away from losing control?
“Aside from that, not a single slip in all this time.” Her pupils grow darker, as I’m sure mine do too.
It would be futile to deny my attraction to her when it’s so evident. She only has to glance down to see the hard evidence
of my desire for her. Painfully hard. “It would be wrong,” is all I can manage.
The spot between her brows pinches into an adorable frown. “Why?”
This has to stop. She has to stop pushing me, believing me to be someone I’m not—a man she should be flirting with. I opt
for cruelty in the hopes it will make her run from me, which would be the wise choice. “Because I own you, Imogen.”
She doesn’t run. Instead she tips her jaw, darting out her tongue to wet the lips I’m so desperate to kiss. “So take me.”
Fuck it all to hell. The very last shreds of any kind of morals or restraint crumble to dust.