She holds out her injured hand, her gaze finally dropping from my face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so clumsy, I just...”
“It’s okay. I’m here. We’ll get you fixed up. Okay?” I keep my voice calm and reassuring while internally I’m building myself up to confront how bad a state her hand may be in when I unwrap this cloth. She told Pierre it was just a cut, but she’stougher than most and has likely been conditioned to downplay her pain all her life.
I unwrap the washcloth slowly, and it’s a relief when I see only one finger has been cut. It’s a deep gash though. Fresh blood is still oozing from the wound.
“This is going to need a couple of stitches. Okay?”
She nods, her eyes back on my face now. Wide and unblinking. Staring at my scars. I choke down the discomfort and focus on her. “I have nothing for the pain other than a little Scotch. Would you like Pierre to bring some?”
“No. I can take it. I’ve had stitches before. In my knee.” She lifts her knee as though to show me, but I’m too focused on her bleeding finger. “I had no anesthesia then either.”
I want to ask why that was, but I suspect I already know. Her grandfather and the Brotherhood kept her a secret. Taking her to a hospital would have alerted the outside world to the fact she was still alive. And now here she is, bleeding all over my study floor and I find myself spiraling into a panic. I can disembowel a man without breaking a sweat, but seeing her bleeding and injured is terrifying.
I grab some alcohol from the tray Pierre has laid out on my desk and carefully take hold of the tip of her injured finger. “This will sting,” I warn her.
“I know.” She swallows and then visibly braces herself for what’s to come. Although she winces when I pour the alcohol over the wound, she doesn’t pull away or flinch. I push away any thoughts of why she might be so accustomed to pain and focus on patching her up, working as gently as possible when I pierce her delicate skin with the needle.
It takes five stitches to close the wound and at least they’re neat enough that the scar won’t be overly visible. She keeps her eyes on the floor the entire time, refusing to look at my face. A choice I can hardly blame her for, given that I can barely stand to look at it myself.
I cut the thread and place the instruments on the tray for Pierre, who quickly takes them from the room, leaving Imogen and me alone.
She remains seated on the chair, looking so small and vulnerable that I want to wrap her in my arms and promise her the world.
“I think I’ll take a little of that Scotch now,” she says, still refusing to look at me.
I grab the bottle along with two heavy tumblers, pouring each of us a measure. She takes hers from me, the fingertips of her good hand brushing over mine and sending shock waves along my hand and forearm. She sniffs the liquor first, then wrinkles her nose in disgust.
I wonder if she’s ever tasted Scotch before. It wouldn’t surprise me that her puritan grandfather never allowed liquor in the house. Before I can ask her, she downs the entire contents of her glass in one gulp. She screws her eyes closed and sticks out her tongue, making a gagging noise. “Oh, dear god that’s disgusting.” She rubs her throat. “And why is it burning?”
I feel my lips curving in a smirk. “Have you ever drank Scotch before?”
She shakes her head, eyes streaming.
“Any kind of whisky?”
“No. No hard liquor ever.”
“Never?”
“I wasn’t allowed alcohol. I did have one glass of champagne the day I turned twenty-one, but I didn’t really care for it.”
Her upbringing intrigues me greatly, but I’m hesitant to pry for fear of what I might accidentally reveal, or what memories I might make her relive. From what I’ve gleaned so far, her upbringing was very strict and regimented. Her father’s was too as I recall. It was one of the reasons he was so eager to join the Brotherhood. Still, I’m too intrigued not to ask. “What other things have you never tried, Imogen?”
The question was intended entirely innocently, but from the way she looks up at me through her darkened lashes, I’m not sure it landed that way. And now I have no doubt we are both thinking about the one very obvious thing she’s never done.
I put an end to that avenue of conversation by adding, “Did you go to regular school?” The answer is one I can already guess, and she confirms my suspicion by shaking her head.
“Never had friends. Went to parties. Or the mall. Or...” her slender throat works as she swallows. “Anything really. You could say I was very...” she considers her next word very carefully “... protected.”
Iwould say she was hidden away and kept as a prisoner, and I’m also aware of the irony that I feel any anger about that fact, given that I’m currently doing the same. While I might tell myself it’s for her protection too, I wonder if she would believe me so readily. I’m desperate to know more, but I’m cautious about unpicking the layers of her psyche when she doesn’t yet trust me.
Instead I brush my fingertips over the bandage on her hand. “How is this feeling now?”
“It’s okay.” Her eyes linger on my face. On my scars.
Instinctively I hide them, dropping my head and staring at the droplets of her blood on the parquet floor. I usually reserve the privilege of seeing my scars for the people I’m about to kill. What if she heard the urban legends of the monster who betrayed the Brotherhood, and the scars he bears for his sins? And what if that’s enough for her to recognize who I really am? Or what if she doesn’t know any of that, but she’s repulsed by me anyway?
She jumps up from the chair. “Lincoln.” Her voice is soft and warm, like molasses in the summertime. “I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.” I refuse to look at her, so she takes a step closer. “I’ve just never seen your face before.”
