“Now you draw attention by killing someone who is directly linked to the girl, and doing so in a manner which is likely to draw scrutiny. I do not understand it.” His accent grows more pronounced the angrier he gets.
“It may draw attention but not to us. He’s one of dozens of Pawns involved in those auctions.”
“So why this one, Lincoln?”
“Because he touched her, Pierre. And I saw the fear in her eyes when he did. That’s why.” I don’t add that I would hunt down every last one of them and give them the same treatment if I could, because he already knows that. One day, I will.
He remains silent. Deep in thought.
“How has she been?”
He snorts. “She spends her days reading in your library orthe garden and her nights watching television in her room. She does not make a mess. She speaks when spoken to. She eats whatever I cook. A perfect little pet, waiting for her master’s return.”
An unexpected growl rumbles in my chest. She is not my pet and I’m certainly not her master. “Did you encourage her to talk? To make some decisions for herself? Ask her what she wanted to eat?”
He frowns. “I am not her babysitter, nor her therapist, Lincoln.”
I bite my tongue, because he’s still annoyed with me for bringing her here, and with good reason. Experience tells me there’s no point in arguing with him when he’s like this. Instead I stare at the screens, waiting for him to get so uncomfortable with the silence that he can’t resist filling it. “Of course I asked her what she wished to eat, and her response was always the same—that whatever I was eating would be fine. Except for breakfast, which as you know for me consists of coffee and more coffee. Meanwhile she would ask for a disgusting blend of oatmeal made with only water.” He makes a gagging sound.
“But that’s a good thing? She asked for what she wanted.”
“Non.” He shakes his head. “Because she does notlikethe oatmeal. I can tell from the little sounds she doesnotmake while eating. And I...” He jabs his finger into his chest. “I am forced to make the foul-smelling sludge when she does not even enjoy it. Did you know she has never been exposed to good music? She did not even know who Bruce Springsteen was!” He appears particularly furious about that and it makes me grin.
“She’s twenty-one, not fifty-one, old friend. And not everyone agrees with your questionable taste in music.”
He gasps loudly, like I’ve just insulted his mother and not his favorite music artist. “My questionable taste? This from a man who enjoys the sounds of people screaming and wailing into a microphone?”
I unlace my boots. “It’s called heavy metal, and you knowthat’s not all I listen to.” As pleasant as this conversation is, it’s not my most pressing concern. “Back to Imogen,” I remind him.
He harrumphs, arms folded over his chest, still not forgiving me for my dig at the Boss. “As I said, she has done little but read, listen to music and watch TV. She is meek and obedient.”
I rub my temples. I’m tired and my conversation with Pierre is leaving me confused. The whole situation with Imogen has me confused, if I’m honest. I recall clearly the fire in her at the night of the auction. So why the obvious change in her? I understand her being uncertain, given the circumstances of her being here, but she doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask questions. Is she playing us? Is she one of them? Or did they hide her all this time only to use her to lure me out of hiding?
I intended to bring Imogen here as soon as I saw her name in that damn brochure, but I have no idea what to do with her now that she is. “So she eats oatmeal but doesn’t like it?”
“Oui. And when I ask why, she tells me that it ishealthy and nutritious. Like it is a mantra she must repeat to herself in order to ingest such blandness.” He snorts with disgust.
“Did you find out anything of interest about her upbringing, aside from her not knowing who some aging rocker is?”
He ignores my barb and rolls his shoulders, like he’s shrugging out of his bad mood. “Of course. You asked me to, did you not?”
“I did, and I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” I considered interrogating her myself, but figured she’d be more likely to open up to the gentle, if often temperamental, blind Frenchman than to the monster who just bought her.
“She was indeed raised by her grandfather, Saul DeMotta, and her upbringing appears to have been very sheltered.”
I nod, deep in thought. Imogen’s father, Luca, rarely spoke of his father, Saul. They were never close. Saul is a billionaire and mean with it. His grandfather made their money in oil in the early 1900s and the family wealth continues to grow, buthe rarely spends a cent he doesn’t absolutely have to. A devout Christian and a staunch advocate fortraditional family values. It’s well-documented that he disinherited his only son after he got his girlfriend pregnant when she was just eighteen. The old bigot insisted that they marry or Luca would be cut off. Luca told him to go to hell and just for spite he waited for their child to be born before he married the love of his life.
If only I had known all these years that Imogen was alive and in the care of the meanest man alive. But I was led to believe she perished along with her mother, only a week after her father was killed. A child’s body was found, and all of the news reports said it was her. The Brotherhood would never have been merciful enough to let her live.
And then I saw her name in the program.
Every Brotherhood auction has fifty lots. This time there were fifty-one. Each woman has a bio, detailing her age, her “purity level,” and whether she has any particulartalents.There are rarely names attached, mostly numbers. Only the most prized lots are deemed worthy of a name. And alongside Imogen’s bio was her name, and the fact that she was the daughter of a traitor. I could practically hear the mob baying for her blood.
“She also spoke of a woman—Larissa.” Pierre’s voice drags me back to the present. “I got the impression she was almost like a governess. Strict, but nurturing. The girl credits this Larissa with teaching her all she knows. Sheclaimsto have had a pleasant childhood.”
“You think she is lying about that?”
“Don’t you?” he scoffs.
