“Of course we did. I remember you well, Mr. Knight. I believe you put two of my children through college.” She laughs softly. “Are you looking for some new furniture?”
“Not exactly. I’m looking for a book.”
“A book?” She sounds surprised.
“A first edition if possible.”
“Books aren’t really my specialty, but I have a friend who could help.”
I bristle at the thought. I abhor dealing with new people and avoid it as much as possible, especially when involving anything remotely personal. “I’d rather deal with you.”
She pauses for a few beats. “Of course. I can arrange the transaction if you’d prefer. Which book is it you’re looking for?”
“The Secret Garden.”
“Oh, that is a beautiful book, and we should be able to get you a copy of that quite quickly. Do you have a price range in mind?”
“Whatever it costs. I want one in the best condition you can find.”
“Oh, delightful,” she squeals. “Is it for your collection, Mr. Knight, or a gift?”
Even more uncharacteristically, I find myself replying with the truth. “It’s a gift.” A long overdue one, although I don’t reveal that. “I’ll email you details of the PO box to send it to, and I’ll wire the money as soon as you confirm you have the item in your possession.”
“Perfect, Mr. Knight. I imagine we can obtain a copy by tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Harriet.”
“My pleasure. It was wonderful to hear from you.”
I end the call and lean back in my chair, and can’t help picturing the happiness on Imogen’s face when she sees the book. At least I hope it will make her happy.
There’s no denying the fact that I’ve trapped her here against her will, yet she seems to have an ability to find happiness in the smallest of things. I recall her squeal of delight in discovering a rose growing out of the brambles in the garden, the way she savors a slice of apple pie, how excited she was over a simple calendar. She’s an incredible young woman who deserves the world, and if I cannot give her the world, I will bring whatever she wants of the world to her.
Chapter 17
Imogen
I have wandered around this house for the past five days in something of a daydream, and I have no idea what’s wrong with me. Because the daydreams are all about Lincoln Knight, and all of the things I’d like him to do to me. Something like the things men did to women in the videos Larissa used to prepare me for life after the auction, and the very same things I could never imagine myself wanting.
But my fantasies about Lincoln are different. In them, he’s tender and kind and not brutal or forceful. Surely that kind of sex happens too?
It does in my head anyway, and now it’s all I can think about. And every time I do, it makes me wet between my thighs and causes that deep ache in my abdomen to bloom. He was so sweet and caring a few nights ago, and it was in a way I don’t recall ever experiencing before.
Larissa was my primary caregiver when I was a child, but even on her best days, I cannot recall her being quite so tender as Lincoln was. The way he thought to get me a hot water bottle for my cramps, and how effective it was. Larissa was very much of the suck-it-up-and-get-on-with-it school of pain relief. Not because she was unkind; it was simply her nature.
Yet Lincoln, a man I expect to be cruel and unfeeling, has shown me more tenderness and compassion in a few weeks than I have experienced in my whole life. And it’s making me confused, and more importantly, it’s distracting me from my primary goal—to get out of here.
Even now, when I know I should be exploring the house and looking for an escape, the memory of that night on my bed is so clear and vivid, and I replay it frequently. Every subtle movement he made. The reassuring steady cadence of his breathing. The heat from his body as it warmed my skin even without him touching me. Although for almost the entire time he was there, I imagined what it would feel like to have him touch me.
By the time the movie was over, I found myself wondering what it would be like if he lost control and rolled on top of me, taking what he paid for. I have no idea why he won’t, unless perhaps I’m not what he expected. Not what he wants. But if that were the case, he’d discard me, wouldn’t he? I’m certain he wouldn’t be so nice to me if it were that simple. Most men who participate in auctions from the Brotherhood would do much worse.
I wander into the library, hoping to find a book that will distract me. Or maybe an epic love story that will be enough to sate my appetite for sex and romance, so that I can stop having inappropriate thoughts about the man who bought me at an auction!
I definitely need to be referred to a psychiatrist, don’t I? And if not for that, then for talking to myself and expecting an answer.
The spot beside the fireplace, the comfy leather armchair and the reading table beside it, has becomemyspace in this house. A place so comfortable and familiar to me that it makes me feel warm inside even by thinking about it. That I’ve been allowed to carve such a place for myself in this fortress where I’m held prisoner is very special to me. I’m grateful and happy for everyminute I get to spend there, and I’m also highly sensitive to any changes to my little corner of the world.
So I immediately spot the extra book on the reading table, and I’m certain that I didn’t leave it there. Has Lincoln been enjoying my little spot by the fireplace too? Eager to discover what book he’s been reading and gather a little insight about his taste in literature, I hurry over to it.
