So what if he’s with other women. He’s not mine. And no matter how much money he paid for me, I’m not his either. The simple fact that he made my body do something incredible doesn’t mean anything. Clearly, whatever I felt about that night in his study is not reciprocated.
Pierre has cleared the dinner dishes and retreated to his quarters. It rained all day today, so we indulged in our daily Marvel movie this afternoon withThe Avengers, and I got to see Black Widow in action. She’s definitely my favorite. I adore how she doesn’t even need any magical powers or special suit, yet sheholds her own with the rest of them. Not just holds her own, she kicks ass.
Judging by the way Pierre always starts to fidget and cough afterward, I’ve realized that a few hours is his tolerance level for allowing anyone to be in his personal space. So, I didn’t ask to join him this evening, and he didn’t invite me to. And now I’m alone in the kitchen... Well, not entirely, I suppose. Who is ever truly alone when there are books to escape into. I open mine, determined to lose myself in a world that’s anywhere but here. After my foray into romance withLady Chatterley’s Lover,I’m working my way through the entire romantic fiction section of the library, which isn’t all that big. Yet, once again when I read about the passion between the characters, I can’t help but imagine they’re Lincoln and me.
What on earth is wrong with me? The me who walked into this house six weeks ago would be so disappointed in the me right now. Larissa would be disappointed. My grandfather too. All those years of training and discipline, unraveled in a few moments.
The main doors slam closed. Pierre obviously hasn’t left, so that must mean Lincoln is home.
Despite the pep talk I just gave myself, butterflies take flight in the pit of my stomach and a bolt of excitement races up my spine. I don’t want to care about his return, but I do. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to miss him, but I have anyway. Still, I resist the urge to run out into the hallway and see him, remaining in my seat with my eyes glued to the pages of my book like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Before Lincoln Knight, it probably was. But we shared a connection last week. Even if it wasn’t enough of one for him, it changed everything for me. And now my world feels less colorful without his presence.
I listen to his footsteps approaching. He has to pass the kitchen to get to either his study in the library or his bedroom, and I brace myself for the rejection of him simply walking by asthough I don’t exist. He’ll know I’m here because the light is on. I’m aware of my own desperate need for his acknowledgment, and while it makes me feel childish and naive, I cannot seem to stop myself. I pray he’ll stop and come inside. The footsteps stop outside the room, and I hold my breath. Waiting.
Then he proceeds down the hallway. I swallow down a sob when I hear the door to the library opening. Eight whole days and he couldn’t even come in here and say hello. Couldn’t even be bothered to ask if I’m okay or see if I’m still breathing. I bet he’s found my replacement already. Maybe he’s going to discard me like a used tissue. Whatever happened last week, for some reason I displeased him. I obviously did something wrong. And I absolutely shouldn’t care about that, because I was raised better than this. Larissa always taught me never to have this kind of attachment to a man, because it gives them too much control. She was right. I fear he could break and build me with a single word. But if I’m no use to him, then I’m dispensable, and being dispensable is dangerous for a girl like me.
Setting down my book, I remind myself who I am and what I’m capable of. I was raised for this life, to survive it at all costs.
Determined to prove that I can be whatever he needs, I make my way to the library. There has to be a reason he bought me from that god-awful auction, and whatever that reason is, I can handle it.
I find the door half open, so I step inside without knocking to witness him staring out the window. Upon hearing my footsteps, he turns around, glaring at me and my intrusion. He’s not wearing his mask and that makes me happy, because he looks so much better without it. I’m reminded of that very first time I saw his face, and how despite the pain of him stitching my now-healed finger, I was transfixed by him. He has always called himself a monster, but all I saw was how strikingly handsome he is, and the sincerity of his smile. But there’s something about the disdain on his face now that ignites the anger whichhas been brewing inside me for over a week. And despite all my best intentions to be the perfect little whatever-the-hell-it-is he wants, I let my emotion spill out.
“So, did you find a replacement?” I want to reel those words back in as soon as they’ve left my mouth.
He scowls, his dark brow furrowed like he’s annoyed, or worried. “A replacement for what?”
Panic overwhelms me now. I spoke out of turn and ignored all of my conditioning, and now I’ve probably made the whole situation worse.
I take a deep breath.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
It’s been a long time since I’ve recited that nursery rhyme, and I was beginning to think I might not need it any longer, but moments like these remind me that I cannot undo... no, I cannot throw away all my years of conditioning in a couple months. The mantra soothes me like always. When I find my calm, I answer his question. “For me.”
He walks around his desk. Every step he takes seems so careful and considered, but I can feel the tension radiating from him, like he’s a volcano quietly simmering before he eventually erupts. “Imogen, what are you talking about?”
I remain still, resisting the urge to fold my arms across my chest and create a barrier between me and the wall of muscle and anger bearing down on me. I soften my tone. “Was it the blood? Did it upset you? I don’t believe it will happen again. That’s supposed to happen the first time from what I’ve been told.”
He blinks, his hard expression softening with confusion. “You think I was upset about a little blood?”
“I don’t know. Something seemed to upset you. If it wasn’t the blood... is it just me? Am I not what you expected? If I’m not what you want, then I can do better, sir?”
“Imogen!” He growls my name, taking another step until he’s closed the distance between us.
I tremble at his closeness. “I can be what you want if you just let me try.”
He screws his eyes shut like he’s in physical pain. What is it about me that makes him so conflicted? “Lincoln, please tell me what I did wrong?”
His eyes snap open, and they’re different. Blazing with heat. “What do you want from me, Imogen? Would it make you feel better if I told you that after I sent you away, I jerked off just to the memory of my finger inside you? That I didn’t wash my hands after I touched you and it was the scent of your cum and your virgin blood that tipped me over the edge.” He fists a hand in my hair, angling my head until I’m staring up into his face. My legs tremble at the contact. “Or that it took every ounce of willpower I possess not to come to your room and fuck every single part of you? Not just once, but over and over again until you screamed for mercy?” He runs his nose over my jawline and my knees completely buckle, but he holds me up. “Would it?”
Oh, dear god. A breath shudders out of me. “Y-yes, sir,” I whisper, staring into his eyes and sure I must be dreaming, because it’s only in my dreams when he wants me just as much as I want him. But this is so much more vivid, his words so much more possessive and erotic than in any fantasy I could conjure. “It would. It does.” He stares at me intently, doing that thing where it’s like he’s trying to read my mind. “So why didn’t you come to my room? Why did you leave instead?”
He inhales deeply, like he’s drinking me in, like he can absorb my essence straight into his bloodstream, and it makes goose bumps prickle out all over my flesh. “Because it’s wrong to want to do those things to you, Imogen. So very fucking wrong.”
I’m scared and excited and confused. Is this wrong? Perhaps it’s entirely messed up for me to so desperately want him to do those filthy things he just spoke about. But is it wrong for me to want to freely give myself to him? I can’t help but wonder if I’d be feeling like this if I wasn’t his prisoner and we were justtwo people who met in a bar, like in a movie. But I am sure of one thing. Tentatively, I place my hands on his chest. “This doesn’t feel wrong to me.”
“But it is,” he groans, sounding torn.
“If it is, then I don’t care, Lincoln. All I know is that I’ve been miserable here this last week, thinking I’d done something wrong and—”
