I’ll make sure they never break down my walls. Never discover my secrets. I’ll be a good girl and do everything they ask me to, even if those things aren’t what I want to do. Immediately, I push away those thoughts. They’re too dark to sully this otherwise perfect moment. And right now, I’m not being asked to do anything. So right now is the perfect time to start looking for answers.
When I go back inside, the kitchen is filled with the aroma of apple and cinnamon. Pierre’s no longer here and there’s a pie on the side counter, protected with a glass dome and waiting for baking, and another in the oven. There’s also a bowl of warm oatmeal on the table, covered with a dish.
I eat alone, wondering if Pierre’s apple pie is supposed to be for everyone to enjoy, or just him and Lincoln. I’ve never tasted apple pie, at least not as far as I can recall, but the smell alone is making my mouth water, and already bland oatmeal is becoming considerably less appealing. I wonder if I’ll be permitted to relax my eating habits here, if even just a little.
I can still be strong even if I eat a slice of apple pie, can’t I?
After my breakfast, I’m still alone in the kitchen and I have zero idea what I’m supposed to do now. Lincoln did say I could use the house as I wished, didn’t he? So, rather than sitting here on my own with the temptation of apple pie, I should get to work and go explore this vast fortress I’m currently trapped in.
I’m bubbling with nervous anticipation as I make my way down the hall. This house is so unlike my grandfather’s estate. His was much more modern. Minimalistic. All hard edges—glass and steel and marble floors, where every sound would echo through the hallways. Nothing soft, not even the beds. Everywhere was muted in color, as opposed to the vibrancy of the rich red drapes and the dark paneled wood of this house. I’ve never been anywhere so still and so peaceful, like the entire place is sleeping, waiting for something or someone to wake it up.
I trail my hand over an antique dresser in the hallway, half expecting dust to collect on my fingertips, but there is none. Everything feels untouched, like the inhabitants move through this place without leaving a mark. Ghosts, even in their own home. What kind of man lives in such a house? What kind of a man is Lincoln Knight? Who is the true devil behind the mask?
I wander the hallways, too cautious to venture into any rooms that I pass, at least until I come across a set of arched double doors. They appear to be made of antique oak carved with vines and flowers in eternal bloom and they are begging to be opened. What is the point of such exquisite doors if they are not to be walked through? I trace my fingertips over a carved rose petal and feel an irresistible urge to push against the door. I glance around and find I’m still alone. Is he watching me? Are there cameras hidden in every dark corner? Is he spying on his captive, waiting for me to make a mistake? Does he want me to open the doors and peek inside? Is he waiting for me to find the things he hides away so that he can punish me for any indiscretion?
My curiosity wins out, and with a hard push, I open the doors wide until the hinges creak under their heavy weight. Immediately, my nose is filled with the scent of old paper and aged wood. Perhaps I was wrong about the overgrown garden being my favorite place in this house. Stepping farther into the room, I’m unable to contain my joy and I spin around, like a ballerina in a music box, my mouth hanging open in awe. There’s no need to hide my feelings when I’m alone after all, and this library is breathtaking. The ceiling rises almost two stories high, atop walls lined with shelves and row upon row of books. The same bloodred heavy drapes that hang in the rest of the house dress the high arched windows, allowing in vast swathes of sunlight that dapple and dance across the book spines. A tall ladder, almost the full height of the room, runs on a track around each of the three walls lined with books.
Beneath one of the arched windows, an old-fashioned desksits as though waiting to be used, and behind it, a heavy wingback chair. Beside that is a small table, containing a crystal decanter half full of dark liquor beside a tray of glass tumblers. The entire room is stunning and now I truly feel like I’ve stepped into a fairy tale—into the Beast’s castle itself.
“I see you’ve found the library.” His deep voice echoes in the room, reminding me this is more nightmare than fairy tale.
I school my face into neutral and turn to him. Lincoln Knight looks different today. He still wears a mask, but this one is vastly different. It only covers the lower half of his face—like a surgical mask but made of thick black fabric. On closer inspection, it appears to be fashioned from fabric and metal. There’s a fine steel grille over his nose and mouth, enough to obscure his features while allowing him to speak, and to breathe—pity! Half of his right eyebrow is missing, a patch of mottled olive skin in its place.
“It’s beautiful, sir,” I say, adopting the same title that Pierre used for him. There’s no time like the present to start pleasing him and earning his trust.
He takes a few steps closer and his black military-style boots squeak on the wooden floor. I resist the instinct to step back because I assume he’s here to inspect his property, and I refuse to be intimidated. He has his hands stuffed into his black cargo pants, exposing his tattooed forearms. I don’t know why his tattoos surprise me so much, but there was no hint of them when I first met him. Dressed in his finely tailored suit, he looked sharp and clean-cut. Not that tattoos alone would make him not so, but everything about his appearance is the opposite of that now. He also has a large hunting knife strapped to his thigh, and the watch he wears appears to be very high-tech. In fact, I’m sure it’s also a cell phone. One of my grandfather’s drivers had something very similar—a smartwatch, he called it. It would make sense for Lincoln to have one, as I haven’t seen any kind of phone in the house, cell or otherwise. He wears a tight-fittedblack T-shirt that appears to barely contain his muscles, making all of him seem much bigger, intimidating. I see why they call him a devil.
“It was here when I bought the house, as were most of the books.” His eyes narrow on my face, so dark and intense that it makes a thrill of something shoot through me. I can’t quite identify the sensation, but oddly enough, it’s not fear. Lincoln Knight is dark and brooding and intense, but I’m not afraid of him. Not yet anyway. “You may use it as you please.”
That makes me want to very inappropriately throw my arms around his neck in gratitude. I adore reading, but was permitted very few books as a child, and even as an adult. My battered and worn copy ofThe Secret Gardenwas one of my most prized possessions and I hated leaving it behind. Of course I don’t hug him because that would not only be wildly inappropriate but also bizarre. I’m not a natural hugger, at least I never thought I was. I can count on my fingers the number of hugs I’ve had in my life, at least that I can recall. I like to imagine my parents hugged me multiple times a day, and maybe that’s where this innate desire to hug comes from. But I don’t hug Lincoln Knight. Even though, very strangely, I want to, all of my conditioning warns me against it. Instead I mumble a very polite thank-you.
He tilts his head to the side, scrutinizing me. His meticulous gaze raking over every inch of my flesh. Is this where he carries me off to his bed? Or will he simply take my virginity right here on the floor of his beautiful library.
I push away all thoughts of hugging and gratitude, and instead steel myself for his unwelcome touch. My skin itches. I want to scratch and fidget under the heat of his eyes, but I don’t. Part of me wishes that he would just do it, if only to get it over with. Because maybe then he’ll let me go back to being alone, and even better, to escaping into one of these books. Perhaps he has a copy ofThe Secret Gardenhidden amongst these shelves.
His rich brown eyes never stray from me even for a fractionof a heartbeat. Why is he staring at me like that, and what the hell is he waiting for? Is this some kind of test? I take a calming breath and recall what Larissa taught me. Show no emotion, because emotion is weakness and he will use it against you. Be passive and obedient. Most importantly, make yourself useful to him. Useful people are less dispensable. Useful people survive.
“Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
His brow furrows in a slight frown and my pulse spikes. He takes a half step closer and his scent invades my senses. Sharp and clean yet familiar, like fresh soap mixed with leather. “I’m leaving for a few days. Pierre will tend to your needs while I’m gone. If you should need any additional clothing or incidentals, then let him know and I will make arrangements to get them.” He sounds detached, but there’s something else too. An edge to his voice that makes shivers race up and down my spine.
But he’s leaving! It’ll just be me alone here with his butler. Does that mean I have a few days of freedom? I’m tempted to ask exactly how long a few days will be and where he’s going, but dare not for fear of provoking his anger.Curiosity killed the cat, Imogen.Don’t ask questions. If people want you to have information, they will offer it.So, instead, I simply say, “Enjoy your trip, sir.”
He grunts something unintelligible before turning and walking out of the library. As the heavy doors close behind him, I spin around and mentally clap my hands with glee. Me and this library for a few days. Now this is a slice of happiness I definitely wasn’t expecting, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.
Chapter 7
Imogen
Last night I fell asleep watching TV again, still expecting someone to disturb me from my peaceful slumber and show me the real reason I’m here. But nobody came.
Although it’s very odd being in this house with only Pierre for company. Pierre who moves through the place like a shadow, close but untouchable. He has taken care of me in so many small ways—preparing my meals, checking if I need anything, doing laundry, even though I insisted I could do that myself. But aside from that, we haven’t had a lot of conversation—a situation I intend to change.
As I wander down the stairs, I hear music coming from the kitchen, and Pierre humming along to the unfamiliar song. I’m not familiar with any modern music. We had a radio at my grandfather’s house, but I rarely heard it on. Certainly I was never allowed to try it for myself, and it was a source of fascination as a small child. But as I grew older, it became one of the many things that was simply not mine to touch.
The kitchen seems to be Pierre’s favorite place, and he’s an excellent cook. Unlike at breakfast, he didn’t ask my preference for lunch or dinner yesterday, he simply served me a plate of food at each meal. They contained some of the most deliciousfood I’ve ever eaten in my life. Although his heavenly smelling apple pies remained untouched on the counter in their glass display cases, and as he seemed annoyed about something, I didn’t dare ask him for a piece. Perhaps later today I will.
He’s still humming softly when I walk into the room, but he stops as soon as he hears me, pressing a button on a screen on the wall that lowers the music volume a little. “Breakfast, mademoiselle?”
