Chapter 46
Imogen
I eat breakfast alone. Well, Pierre is nearby, but he’s busy puttering in the pantry and stores, doing an inventory before
Lincoln’s next visit to town. But I feel very alone. This is my fifth day eating breakfast without him, yet today his absence
is even more acute. Because the past four days he was away, but this morning he’s here somewhere in this house, yet he’s choosing
to purposely avoid me. And that hurts me so much that it causes an actual physical ache in my heart.
Leaving me alone in his bed was so abrupt, and so unlike him to be that cruel. One minute he was lying on top of me, all fire
and yearning. And then he was cold and distant. I know it was something to do with what I said about him owning me, but I
didn’t intend to hurt him. I was simply stating a fact, at least in that moment I was. It was only afterward that I realized
to a man like Lincoln, the fact that he bought me doesn’t mean the same thing as him owning my body. He’s not like those other
men who go to those auctions. I can understand now how hurt he would be by my assumption. He didn’t bring me here to his house
to use me for his own pleasure. He says he did that for my protection, and while I still don’t understand the why of that,
I do believe him.
“Have you eaten enough, mon chou?” Pierre’s comforting voice washes over me. I’ve barely eaten anything, but I can’t face food. I feel lost and desperately
sad. That’s what’s filling me up right now.
“Yes. Merci, Pierre.”
He busies himself clearing my plates away and I watch him for a few moments. He always seems so content, locked away here
in this mansion with so little company. I used to be content that way too, in my grandfather’s house, having learned to be
so happy with small comforts in life from as early as I can remember. But do I want to keep doing that for the rest of my
life? I used to dream that if I ever did get my freedom, I would use it to see as much of the world as I could. But for now,
my world is right here, and the most vibrant part of it is refusing to talk to me.
Sliding off my stool, I bid farewell to Pierre and then I go in search of Lincoln. As expected, I find him in his study in
the library, his head bent over his desk, the light from his laptop illuminating his handsome features. He doesn’t look up
when I walk in, nor when I wait patiently in front of his desk, as I imagine a naughty student would wait in their principal’s
office.
“Sir?”
He finally looks up. “What is it, Imogen? I’m busy.”
Imogen? He very rarely calls me that. Usually angel or baby, the latter being my favorite. I’m sure it means something that
he uses my name now instead of one of those sweet nicknames. “I’d like to know what I did wrong, sir?”
His right eye twitches. “Nothing.”
I hold his gaze and summon all my courage to ask, “So why are you ignoring me? Why did you leave your bed so quickly this
morning?”
His throat works. “You did nothing wrong, Imogen. I, on the other hand, have done all manner of things wrong.”
“Like what, sir?”
His dark brown eyes seem to flash with anger. “Too many things to count, but most of all the things I have done to you.”
What does that even mean? “Do you mean buying me from the auction?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t regret that. It was necessary.”
“How did you even know about that auction? I was led to believe the only men invited to such events were affiliated with the
Brotherhood in some way, or at least they hoped to be.”
He snarls. “I have no links with the Brotherhood. I despise them.”
“I guess we have that in common, then.” I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. He seems to be growing more annoyed
with my questions, but he was the one who taught me to ask instead of assuming, so I persist. “I still don’t understand what
you mean by what you’ve done wrong. What things have you done to me?”
“All of the things, Imogen. Kissing you. Touching you. Fucking you!”
His breathing is fast and hard, his eyes wild with both anger and desire, and I know exactly how he feels. Those same emotions
rage through me. Lincoln looks like he might leap over his desk and fuck me right here where I stand, and I would welcome
it. This push and pull between us drives me crazy with confusion sometimes, but at the same time I live for it. It makes me
feel vibrant and necessary. It makes me feel alive.
“I resent the idea that those things were done to me, sir, and I was merely an unsuspecting participant.” My tone is filled with defiance, so much of it that even I’m startled.
His jaw works, like he’s visibly struggling to contain his emotions. “Regardless, they won’t happen again.”
His words crack open my heart, leaving me reeling. “What if I want them to happen again?” I hear the desperation in my voice
now and I hate it, but I’m powerless to stop it.
“How can either of us truly know that’s true, Imogen. Like you said, I own you. There’s a power imbalance here that we can never get past.”
“I’m sorry I said that. I’m sorry . . .” My lips and my voice tremble.
Instantly, he pushes back his chair and stalks around the desk. Cupping my jaw in his powerful hand, he gently rubs the pad
of his thumb over my lip. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Then why does this feel like a punishment, sir?”
His dark eyes narrow. “I can assure you that it’s not. One day, you’ll realize that what I’m doing is the best thing for both
of us.”
“I don’t believe you.”
His tongue darts out and he looks like he wants to argue with me. That, or kiss me, but he does neither. Instead he returns
to his seat. “See yourself out and close the door behind you. I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the day.”
Anger and injustice burn through my veins. How dare he! I want to cuss at him, call him out for being a hypocritical asshole,
but I clamp my lips together instead, and do as he asks. Like the obedient little pet he bought.
I don’t see Lincoln again all day, not even for dinner, when I’m sure I’d get at least a glimpse of him. I thought about going
into the library to read, but the door remained closed, and I took that as a sign he didn’t want me in there.
With all of that, I’m lying in bed and it’s after midnight. I heard him coming to bed about a half hour ago, hoping that he
would stop by my room, if only just to say good-night. I closed my eyes and imagined him peeking inside and thinking I was
sleeping, then silently tiptoeing across the room to kiss my forehead.
Of course he didn’t though and I’m still lying here, wondering how things went so badly so quickly. I go over and over our last conversations in my head. How his entire demeanor changed this morning when I reminded him that he’d bought me.
And before that . . . before that we were talking about somnophilia, and consent. He asked for mine, and I made an assumption
that my consent didn’t matter. But I understand now that it does, to Lincoln at least. Today in his study, when I asked what
he’d done wrong, he said all the things I have done to you. I found it odd at the time but was too caught up in feelings to really unpack that with him.
But it was an odd choice of words—done to me, not with me. As though I had no say in the matter? And now I realize how poorly I handled the consent conversation. Since I arrived
here, he’s never touched me without my permission. Never taken advantage of me. Never pushed me too far. Not once have I ever
felt afraid of him. I’ve been mad as hell at him, like when he cuffed me and left me alone all night, but never afraid. I
can’t recall a time in my life before living here when I wasn’t afraid.
I hurt him when I assumed my consent wasn’t even on the table, because if I think about how he’s behaved toward me, of course
it is. And I should go tell him that, shouldn’t I? Right now in fact.
I pull back the covers and jump out of bed. Then I pace up and down the room for another twenty minutes, debating the pros
and cons of marching into Lincoln’s room and telling him that I made a mistake. Offering him my consent of my own free will
and not because of the fucked-up auction that brought us together.
I chew on a hangnail. It was Lincoln who told me to speak up for myself.
He rewards me for telling him what I want.
So surely, he would want me to do that now?
Instead of .pacing up and down my room and driving myself sick with worry.
I can do this. What’s the worst that can happen?
He’ll tell me I’m crazy and send me back to my own room again.
That will hurt, but it won’t be any worse than this.
With my mind made up, I leave the sanctuary of my bedroom and cross the dim hallway to his. My fingers tremble on the handle,
but I summon all my courage and push the door open. He’s asleep in the middle of his bed, the covers pulled up to his waist,
the contours of his muscular body highlighted by the slivers of moonlight.
Not a monster at all. He looks more like an angel to me. With the exception of my father, whom I remember so little of, Lincoln
is the best man I’ve ever known.
I tiptoe silently across the room, my eyes never leaving his sleeping form. He looks so peaceful. So beautiful. The pale light
from the moon shimmers on his olive skin, making him look like he’s been carved from the finest marble. He has his right arm
thrown above his head, revealing the full extent of his scars. White mottled flesh covered by dark tattoos.
I’m driven by the same desire I had this morning, to sink myself onto his rigid length while he’s sleeping. To unravel him
using only my mouth or my body. To have him powerless beneath my touch. I peel my T-shirt over my head and drop it to the
floor. Then I inch the cover down slowly, revealing his nakedness and the tip of his length. He’s already semihard. Is he
dreaming about me? Wishing that I’d wake him the way I told him I’d like to?
I edge closer. He did give me his consent. Anytime and anywhere were his exact words. Does that still stand now after he ignored
me all day? But he didn’t revoke it. And what better way to show him how much I truly want him than by initiating sex. If
he’s worried that I’m not able to consent, then I’ll show him that I can.
My mouth waters at the memory of his taste. The salty velvet of his skin. How his length thickened in my mouth. His warm cum coating my throat.
I crawl onto the bed, careful not to wake him yet. With the flat of my tongue, I lick a path from the base of his shaft all
the way to the crown. He groans. I do it again, until his cock stiffens further. Then I take him into my mouth and he bucks
his hips, sinking deep into me, just like I hoped.