“You can refill it with boiling water when it cools.”
“Thank you, sir.” Now that word doesn’t make me feel any anger at all. In fact, it travels straight to my dick. Maybe it’s the soft moan to her voice. Or that they sound like words spoken because of actual sincerity rather than obedience. Glancing around the room, I notice three empty Milky Way wrappers on her nightstand and she immediately blushes when she sees me looking.
“I’ve never tasted them before. They were really good.” She’s apologetic, a tone she often adopts around me, and it’s a quirk I despise. She has no reason to apologize to me, for anything. Ever. She could raze this house to the ground and my pressing concern would be whether she’d burned herself in the process.
I want to kiss her forehead and tell her she deserves all the candy in the world. “I would have eaten all six of them, and the peanut butter cups.”
Her lips curve in a radiant fucking smile, a smile that makes me want to protect her and defile her at the same time. I feel so many conflicting emotions around her. Every second I spend alone with her tests my resolve to its limits, and feels like it brings us closer to an inevitable outcome. Me. Her. Naked.
I screw my eyes closed and chase such thoughts away. It’s notgood for either of us, for me, to be sitting on her bed like this, and besides how wrong it is to do the things I want to do to her, she’s far too distracting. I have a mission to focus on. Goals to accomplish. “Good night, Imogen.”
The storm that’s been threatening all evening finally breaks, and thunder cracks in the sky. Her eyes snap open as she steals a quick glance at the window. “Would you sit with me?”
“You want me to sit with you?”
She shivers. “Sorry. Thunder always makes me a little on edge.”
Of course it does, and I should have anticipated it. If thunder still makes me think of that night, then it’s unsurprising that it’s left such a profound imprint on her young memory.
There was a storm the night her father was killed—the same night I found her and her mother cowering in the woods behind their safe house. I’d never heard thunder so deafening before, nor since. She was just three years old then, but how much of that fateful night does she recall? Hopefully none of it at all. Nothing except for the thunder anyhow.
She schools her face into a neutral stance once more, but the ghost of her fear is still here with us. “I’m okay. It was a silly thing to ask.”
Both of us wear masks, and now hers is back in place. But I long to see it slip again, and I’m aware of the irony of the masked man longing to see behind hers. But I would let her see beneath mine, if she truly wanted to. Actually, I think there’s not a lot in this world I wouldn’t do for her. “Would you like me to sit with you, Imogen?”
Her eyes shine with surprise. “Yes please, sir.”
I kick off my shoes and then grab a pillow, propping it up against the headboard beside her. I’m hyperaware of the proximity of her and the slight increase in her breathing. It mirrors the spike in my heart rate. And I notice more acutely how small her body is in comparison to mine. How easy it would be toroll on top of her and let my hands wander to all the places I dream of touching.
“What are you watching?” I hope to God it’s nothing remotely sexy, because I’m not sure that will help the situation in my pants right now.
“A movie about a zombie apocalypse but I think actually the zombies are the good guys.”
Not what I was expecting, but definitely feels like safe territory. “Is this the kind of thing you usually watch?”
“I don’t have a usual. I’m still trying to figure out what I like, so I’m working my way through the different top tens.”
So she wasn’t exposed to much of the outside world? Interesting but not unsurprising. “You didn’t watch a lot of TV before you came here?”
She shakes her head. “Not much. I wasn’t allowed to. But very occasionally, when my grandfather was away, and if I’d done all my lessons and stayed out from under Larissa’s feet or hadn’t caused any trouble, I was allowed to watch an hour of TV. I used to watch Nickelodeon.”
I can’t imagine her ever causing any trouble as a child. And I’m keen to know more about what happened to her if she ever did cause any. I’m especially keen to know more about Larissa. Did she truly show Imogen the care and understanding that she seems to indicate, or was it simply that Larissa wasn’t as cruel as her grandfather? And was she another Pawn in the Brotherhood’s game? When I eventually confront Saul DeMotta, which I will surely do one day, will Larissa be an ally or an enemy? As much as I’d love to ask her more questions and tease out the information I seek, I’m also cautious about pushing Imogen too far too soon.
So I remain quiet, allowing her to fill the silence. “I always preferred reading anyway. I didn’t have a lot of books, but I used to read my favorite over and over again. So, your library is like heaven to me.” She smiles and it’s a beautiful thing.
“And what was your favorite book?”
Her face tilts toward me, her green eyes sparkling. “The Secret Garden.”
I’ve heard of it of course, but never read it for myself.
“I used to imagine I was Mary, and I’d find a garden in my grandfather’s estate and maybe my own Colin and Dickon,” she says with a dreamy sigh. “I think I just admired the characters, and wished I could be as brave and courageous and strong as they were, you know?”
She goes back to watching the movie, no doubt worrying that she’s shown too much of herself. And as much as that hurts, I understand her motives for keeping her guard up around me. Given the circumstances of her being here, and the kind of man she must believe me to be, it would be foolish to show her emotions so readily. And Imogen DeMotta is no fool. But I’ve no idea why she wished she were braver and stronger and more courageous, because she is all of those things and so much more. And I wish I were brave enough to tell her so.
Instead I sit quietly beside her, with my arms folded over my chest, and we watch her awful movie. I try not to think about the scent of her skin, or the soft steady cadence of her breathing. Try not to steal glances at the curve of her neck or the way her nipples continue to peek through the fabric of her T-shirt. I even pretend not to notice when her foot grazes mine. And when I shift position and her breath catches in her throat, I convince myself that it’s because she was engrossed in the movie and forgot I was there, and not because she thought I was going to touch her.
I don’t allow myself too much time to ponder whether my touch would be welcome or not. Nor which would be worse, her rejection or her submission.
