What if that’s what he expected me to do? Is that the kind of woman he paid ten million dollars for?
I wish I knew the answer, because it would make my life a whole lot easier, wouldn’t it?
Or perhapseasyisn’t the word. My life could never have been described as easy. But it was safe. Regimented. I always knew what was expected of me and when. My life had purpose. I had goals. Keep myself pure. Learn how to survive life after the auction. Take happiness in the smallest of pleasures. And I always knew exactly what I had to do to achieve those goals. I learned to take a life that could so easily have been unfulfilling, and color it with meaning and purpose.
Yet here, I find myself with no such meaningful purpose. No daily tasks to check off my list. No need tosurvivethe daily horrors of abuse and degradation that I was taught to expect. Those same horrors that I imagine all fifty of the women who were sold before me are currently enduring. Why was I the lucky one? And how strange to consider myself lucky, given the circumstances I’m faced with. But compared to my counterparts, I’m extremely fortunate and I know that. Instead of facing torture and horror, I’m finding pockets of happiness in almost every moment, so many that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to focus on my ultimate goal—my freedom.
Because, ironically, within the walls of Lincoln’s fortress, I find myself with a kind of autonomy I’ve never had before. Since I’ve been here, I’ve been expected to be nothing but me. And that’s the kind of freedom I’ve secretly yearned for, but never even dared to consider. Trouble is I’ve been whotheywanted me to be for so long I’m not sure who I actually am. I feel bolder here, but I’ve also never felt so confused and conflicted as I do in this house.
And I’ve also never felt more alive.
Chapter 11
Lincoln
It’s been three days since I got back. Three days of her scent lingering wherever she’s been—citrus fruits and the subtle hint of wildflowers—and three days of me trying not to be alone with her, at least not in close proximity. I almost crossed a line with her that night in the library. I almost touched her skin, and it would have been so easy to let myself feel the soft silk of her cheek, especially when it seemed like she wanted me to. But then where would that have led? For surely one touch would never be enough where she’s concerned. And doinganythingwith her is monstrous and unthinkable. I’m heinous for even considering it.
I drop into the chair in front of the bank of screens in my basementlair. Eight of them attached to different computers which run endlessly. Two monitor security and heat detection cameras. Two monitoring my investments and programmed with a code that buys and sells stock based on the market fluctuation. It’s a program I should probably have patented, except it would get me into a whole heap of trouble with Wall Street if I did. No need for brokers when a simple program can do the work of one hundred of them—not to mention it’s faster, smarter and free from human error.
And while it would please me to no end to piss off all those rich entitled men in suits, I’m not in the habit of drawing unnecessary attention to myself. I exist in a state of nonexistence. The reclusive billionaire. Disfigured. Psychotic. Driven mad by the loss of his good looks and locked away in his secret hideaway, far from the prying eyes of the world. There are plenty of rumors out there about me, some so ridiculous they could have come straight from the mind of a horror fiction writer. And I’ve heard them all—from slaughtering my entire family in the house fire that scarred me, to being a devil worshipper. I do nothing to quash any of them, because for the most part they serve me well.
The other four screens run different kinds of programs. One is still tracing the money I paid to the Brotherhood, but every time the trail stops, it bounces and picks up somewhere else. The others are primarily focused on finding people—specifically members of the Brotherhood and the women sold at their auctions. The only way to ease my conscience is to try and rescue as many of the women as I can find, while also trying to take down as many of the sick fucks who ply this trade as possible. The Brotherhood are an elite organization made up of only the finest and cruelest minds in the world. Insidious and ruthless. They are masters of disguise, who have infiltrated every major institution and influential government in some way. They are ghosts, like me. Their ranks are organized like a game of chess. They have many Pawns. Soldiers who are dispensable and never provided with information other than that which is absolutely necessary to the task. I expect some of them don’t fully understand the organization they’re working for. They mostly do it for the kudos, the hope that one day they may rise through the ranks and become untouchable too. And some of them simply do it for the thrill, because the wordsthe Brotherhood, spoken only ever in the ghost of a whisper, give them a boner.
Then there are the Bishops. Therespectablefaces of the organization—politicians and businessmen who further the Brotherhood’s agendas through any means at their disposal. Ruthless and cruel, but with the charisma of a beloved dictator. And of course there are the Knights—the protectors. The generals who are the link between the Pawns and the power. The Knights report to the Rooks, and the Rooks to the Queen, the highest rank before the King himself.
Each level is closely guarded with minimal interaction. Every single member has a single handler who they communicate with. I’ve met many Knights, killed plenty too. I’ve only ever met two Bishops. The first was on the day my sister died, and I beat him to death with my bare hands. The second one was fifteen years ago. I killed him too. Slipped digitalis into his martini and watched him slump face forward into his date’s ample breasts. I was blinkered back then. Focused only on wiping out as many of them as I could, until I realized my strategy was all wrong. Kill a Bishop and there are dozens waiting to take his place. Like a snake, the only way to take out the Brotherhood is to sever its head. Take its King. Bloody vengeance used to be the only balm to soothe the constant rage, fueled by my crushing guilt, yet now I find myself with another, altogether more effective and more pleasant, form of solace—and that is simply her presence.
I glance at the screen on the top right and frown. This one is focused on tracing the other women from the auction last week. But there is far too little progress and it’s happening far too slowly. I roll my neck, trying to keep a lid on my frustration.
Pierre’s footsteps alert me to his presence and I’m thankful for his company. This basement has always been cold and clinical, and that’s how I like it. Or how I used to like it. But the blandness of this space feels a stark contrast to the color and texture of life above me in the main house. There’s a brightness and awarmth there now that has nothing to do with the fire Pierre has started lighting in the library every evening, and everything to do with the person he’s lighting it for.
“Have you found anything yet?” Pierre asks, wheeling over the spare chair and then sitting beside me.
“No. Everything is frustratingly slow,” I grumble.
“It is always slow,monami. The Brotherhood are not fool enough to allow the girls to be traced so easily, for it would undermine the integrity of their entire structure,non?”
I grunt in response. He speaks the truth. As far as money goes, the auctions are pocket change for the revenue they bring in. Held every two years, they’re not run for profit. No, their existence serves a much more sinister and important purpose. An auction is a breeding ground for future marks, already corrupt or primed to be corrupted. Full of arrogant, powerful men, who are so morally bankrupt that they would buy a woman from a fucking brochure where her primary selling point is howusedshe is. And as such, the Brotherhood go to great lengths to protect the identities of their customers, and what they do with thegoodsthey buy. They also have a bunch of men who are as smart as me, running programs just like mine, who work just as hard to keep me out as I work to get in.
“I need a lead, Pierre.” I run my hands through my hair. “Eighteen years and I’ve never come close to finding a Rook.” The Rooks are the key. The keepers of the secrets who are trusted above all others.
“Your day will come, Lincoln. I feel you getting closer.”
I close my eyes and sigh, wishing I could believe him.
Eighteen years of taking souls and exacting vengeance and I never make a dent in their organization. Because every time I take out one of them, it seems two more take their place. They continue growing stronger and richer and more powerful. But if I could find one of them. If I could spend an hour alone with a Rook, I’m sure I could get the information I need to find theKing. The man responsible for taking the only people who ever meant anything to me.
My mind wanders as it often does to the only Rook I ever met. I knew him very well. His name was Luca DeMotta. He was Imogen’s father, and I was one of the many Knights who served him. He was calculated and shrewd, and brilliant and loyal. The Brotherhood say I killed him—identified him as a traitor and exacted my just revenge. And every single day I feel the weight of his death on my conscience.
Chapter 12
Lincoln
Imogen wanders into the kitchen at 8:00 a.m., the same time every morning. It’s been two weeks since her arrival, and I’ve started getting here by seven thirty so I can eat my breakfast before she arrives. I don’t look up, keeping my head bent low over my laptop, which I’ve taken to carrying everywhere with me lately. It’s an easier way to keep track of the security footage now that I appear to be spending more time in the upper parts of the house rather than my basement. It’s also a convenient screen to hide behind while I observe her surreptitiously.
I watch her and Pierre go through their usual morning routine where he asks her what she’d like for breakfast, and every day I see the almost imperceptible flash of disappointment on his face when she replies with her request for oatmeal. Today, it seems he has a plan to change this, and I am anxious to see how she’ll respond. She’s a woman who seems so content with the smallest of pleasures, yet she refuses to permit herself the simplest joy of eating what she wants for breakfast. It makes me wonder at her upbringing. Was it merely sheltered as she suggests, or was it thoroughly miserable? I suspect the latter, despite her claiming it waspleasant.
If circumstances were different, I would take her to the finest eateries in the world. I’d let her sample the richest, most butterycroissants in Paris, and the softest sweetest gelato in Italy, and I would bask in the look on her face as she ate things that truly brought her happiness.
