Chapter 58
Imogen
Is it snooping if the drawers aren’t locked? If there’s something he doesn’t want me to find, then he’d lock it away, wouldn’t
he? Not that he has a safe I’m aware of—the entire house feels more secure than Fort Knox. But if this was the right thing
to be doing, I wouldn’t be feeling so guilty about it.
Yet I want, no, I need to know more about Lincoln Knight. He’s so evasive about his past, about how he became the man he is
today, his scars, his family. Why he paid ten million dollars for a traitor’s daughter. And these past few weeks, I’ve felt
him pulling away from me. Not physically. He’s still attentive and kind and loving, but he’s definitely more guarded than
he was before. And I’ve spent so much time here being lulled into this domestic, if highly erotic, bliss we’ve created for
ourselves that I suppressed my innate curiosity about him.
Or perhaps I’m simply inherently suspicious rather than curious.
Perhaps I was simply raised by awful people, who taught me to question kindness and love while blindly accepting cruelty and pain.
Either way, this must be wrong or I wouldn’t be sneaking around doing it while he’s not here.
Yet I don’t find myself stopping. Because I know that Lincoln Knight has a secret and I know in my gut that it has something to do with the reason he bought me from that vile auction.
I go through his desk drawers methodically, making sure that I put everything back in its rightful place. There isn’t a lot
in here. Stationery. Deeds to a property in Vermont. The spare key to his SUV. A half empty packet of gum. Nothing that gives
me any clues to the man.
I suppose everything is digitalized now and he’d have no need for masses of paperwork. And in the five months I’ve lived here,
he’s never received any mail to my knowledge. Nor a single visitor. My grandfather was a private man, but there were always
visitors to the house. Every day people would arrive, and I would be shunted away to my room by Larissa, or one of the drivers,
until the visitors left. I’ve been so wrapped up in Lincoln and finding my own happiness that I stopped noticing what was
around me.
I run my fingertips absentmindedly over the carved ebony. This is an antique desk, made before a time when computers and access
codes and fingerprint technology was even a thing. I crouch down and crawl beneath it, looking for a hidden drawer or some
kind of lever or something, but find nothing. With a sigh of frustration, I crawl out from under it and sit cross-legged on
the floor, staring at the ornately carved corners and the filigree work on the silver handles. So much craftmanship into one
piece of furniture.
I pull the bottom drawer open again, all the way to the end. It doesn’t slide all the way out, stopped by one of those pieces
of wood that are designed to do that very job. Reaching inside, I twist it aside and pull the drawer all the way out before
peering inside the empty space I left behind.
Nothing.
I do the same to the other three on that side.
Still nothing. With little else but time, I move to the other side of the desk and do the same, not even sure what it is I’m looking for.
Even if something were hidden behind these drawers.
When I pull the middle drawer all the way out, I see the corner of a faded brown envelope peeking out from the space above and my heart leaps into my throat.
It can’t be much bigger than a greeting card, probably something that simply fell down the back of the drawer and was forgotten about.
Still, my heart is racing when I pull out the final drawer.
And that’s when I see the envelope is taped to the wood.
My fingers are trembling as I gently peel back the yellowed Scotch tape. It looks like it’s been stuck there for years. I’m
careful not to tear the tape from the envelope and damage it, so it seems to take forever for me to remove it. The envelope
is unsealed and it’s so thin it doesn’t contain much at all. I peer inside and find a photograph. A polaroid-style one that
prints immediately. Why does Lincoln have an old photograph taped to the back of his desk?
My hand is shaking as I reach inside, my fingers gripping the edge of the glossy paper. I’m filled with anticipation and excitement
and a healthy dose of dread. What if I don’t like what I find? He clearly hid this for a reason. Perhaps it’s a photograph
of him before his accident. One that he can neither bear to look at nor throw away.
I pull it out, expecting to see his face. And I do. His face before the accident that left him scarred. He’s smiling for the
camera.
But it’s not his face that makes me feel like I’ve been punched right in my solar plexus. Not his smile that makes time stand
still. I recognize the two adults he’s standing beside who also smile widely for the camera. My parents. My father has his
arm around Lincoln. My mother stands between them both, holding a small child in her arms. A little girl of about two with
a shock of dark curly hair.
Me.
I struggle to breathe as all the oxygen is siphoned from the room. My heart races erratically, thundering like a bass drum
in my ears, making my head spin with confusion and fear.
Lincoln knew my parents. Lincoln knew me before the auction.
I peer at his face more closely, eyes narrowed in concentration. How did I not recognize him immediately? Even through the
fog of confusion, it’s clear as day to me now, as I stare at his younger self. He doesn’t have the beard or the scars, and
his hair is cut much shorter, but how could I have not remembered those eyes?
I experience an entire lifetime of pain in a single moment. My poor heart, which only just discovered how to beat, stops.
Then it disintegrates into nothing but dust, leaving a gaping, sucking hole in my chest where it used to be.
Lincoln isn’t Lincoln Knight at all. He’s not the man I’ve spent the last few months falling in love with. He’s Killian Wolfe.
The man who betrayed and killed my parents.
My godfather.
I have no idea how long I stare at the photograph for, but time starts to lose all meaning. My life as I know it has lost
all meaning. Everything I’ve come to believe, everything I’ve learned about myself these past five months is all a lie.
None of it was true. Lincoln lied to me.
Killian lied to me. The man who betrayed my parents.
The man who slaughtered them and would have done the same to me had my grandfather not intervened.
So is that why he bought me? To finish the job?
Was making me fall in love with him always part of his plan, or a sickening by-product?
Has he been laughing at me all this time?
Making me dependent on him? Making me care about him? Love him?
A river of silent tears runs down my cheeks, dripping onto my T-shirt and soaking into the fabric. I can’t believe he would
be so cruel. Not the man who is capable of such tenderness. I refuse to believe that everything between us has been a lie.
My soul would surely disintegrate into particles of dust along with my heart if that’s true.
But why would he do this? Why seek me out if not for some revenge? Surely it’s not for redemption, because there is no redemption
for a man who took my parents and left me to a life of anguish and humiliation. An entire childhood of believing my only fate
was to be sold by the Brotherhood into a life of pain. Or is that exactly why he chose me? His final sick twisted revenge
against my father? The Brotherhood’s ultimate vengeance. Fuck her before you kill her.
Did he always intend to make me need him before he eviscerates me? Was that part of the plan? Although none of that hurts
more than what he made me believe. He made me believe I was loved. He made me believe I was worthy.
Sick, twisted bastard!
I want to tear the photograph in half, remove him from the image and keep the rest of it somewhere safe with me. I want to
run from this house. Far away into a world without this kind of bone-deep betrayal. But there’s no escape from here. Not unless
I’m smart. Not unless I stick to my original game plan. I have to let Killian believe what he wants to believe. Let him use
me in whatever way he needs while I figure a way out.
It will be more difficult now that he’s broken down my walls. He’s too shrewd. If I put the same ones back up, he’ll notice
there’s something wrong, and I can’t allow that to happen.
I gather myself back together, mentally collect all the broken fragments of who I was and piece them back together into a form that resembles me, if not the same me from this morning.
Now I’m more like the one who first arrived here. A safer version of myself.
Then I scrub the tears from my cheeks and press a kiss on each of my parent’s faces. With steady hands, I carefully return
the photograph and the envelope to its previous hiding place. I’ll build new walls—stronger than before. Impenetrable. Lincoln
Knight is dead to me. And Killian Wolfe can go to hell.