I press a kiss on her lips and run my tongue along the seam. She allows me entry into her sweet mouth and I kiss her softly, hoping to reignite the spark of connection we just shared. But she’s gone, retreated into herself, and I can’t blame her. I’m loath to even imagine the horrors she was prepared for and almost subjected to, so I cannot fathom the armor she had to develop in order to deal with all of that. To be the fearless girl who walked onto that stage in front of a room full of monsters and didn’t break.
I go to the restroom and bring back a warm washcloth, and I gently clean the cum from between her thighs. She lies back obediently and lets me tend to her, then politely thanks me afterward. I hate it. I hate the well-trained obedient little pet she’s turned into within the space of a few minutes. I hate what they made her—a perfect little fuck doll to be used and abused at will. And given what we just did, it hurts like fuck that she’s closed herself off to me so quickly.
I know that she wanted what happened between us tonight.She was different when she came into my study. Filled with fire and defiance because I’d neglected her. That was the real Imogen, the only one I have any interest in kissing, fucking, or doing anything else with. And if I have to push her boundaries to bring out that side of her, then that’s exactly what I’ll do, no matter how cruel she might think me for it.
I press a soft peck on her forehead and wish her good-night. That’s when I see it, the tiniest flicker of anguish that flashes in her eyes. Despite her walls, she wants me to stay in here with her. And I probably should, given how I just took her virginity the way I did. But if I stay, I’ll likely wake her in the night to fuck her again, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to tap back into the real her, or whether she’ll let me climb on top of her because that’s what she’s been conditioned to do. And taking her like that would fucking crush me.
So, I leave her alone in the dark, even though I know it will probably hurt her. It guts me to my core to cause her any kind of pain, but the reality is her guard comes down quickest when she’s feeling new overwhelming things. Imogen needs to break free of whoever it was she was always taught or expected to be, and unfortunately for my girl, pain is usually the quickest route to any kind of meaningful change.
Chapter 32
Imogen
I’m so sore that every step I take this morning is a reminder of last night. An evening that started out so perfectly and then ended so horribly—with Lincoln leaving me alone in the dark. And I hate the dark, not that he’d know that because I’d never tell him. After he dug up all those old wounds from my childhood and my past, he left me wide open and bleeding.
He tended to my body so gently, carefully washing me. But my body will heal much quicker than my heart. I let him inside me, not just literally, and he still left. I know I got upset and defensive when I thought he accused me of lying. But I realized my mistake and immediately afterward I went back to being his perfect little angel. Passive and submissive and never emotional or needy. And he left me anyway. Used me and walked away.
Perhaps it was me closing off like that made him turn away. I don’t know what to do anymore. Being closed off and unemotional is how I survive. That’s how I was taught to survive. And Larissa wouldn’t lie to me. She prepared me the best way she knew how. But Lincoln isn’t like any of those men she warned me about. He’s different, and so maybe all of that preparation is meaningless where he’s concerned.
I shower and dress and head downstairs, hoping to see himwhile also praying that I don’t. What if my body remembers how good he made me feel and I melt into a puddle at his feet? What if I’m too needy? Too clingy? What if he’s tired of me already and tosses me aside to find his next virgin? One who doesn’t run her mouth too much or react emotionally to being made to feel like a liar.
I see now that that’s when it all started to go wrong. But I despise being accused of lying. Unconsciously I scratch at the healed scar on the inside of my wrist—the burn from a poker, and my constant reminder that lying is bad. My grandfather caught me sneaking one of his books from his library, and when I told him it was the first time it happened, he showed me a video of me doing it the week before. I can still smell the burning flesh, still feel the cruel sting of his words when he called me a lying little bitch.
I never lied to him again.
“Would you like some breakfast, mademoiselle?” Pierre’s voice jolts me from the memory of searing pain and burned skin and I realize I’ve wandered into the kitchen in a daze. And I am dazed. Overwhelmed with all the new and confusing sensations and the way they’re making me question everything I’ve ever known—rocking the very bedrock of who I am.
I take a breath.One, two, buckle my shoe.I need to remember who I am. Need familiarity so that I can think clearly and remember my goals. Lincoln is a distraction. Larissa warned me of this very thing.
“Yes please, Pierre. Oatmeal would be nice.”
He simply smiles and opens a cupboard.
“No pancakes and bacon this morning?” Lincoln’s deep voice almost knocks me off my feet. He steps up behind me, the heat from his body at my back. Yes, definitely a distraction.
I twist around, my heart fluttering and my throat closing over as I stare up into his deep brown eyes. He’s still not wearing his mask and I’m glad about that, at least. Happy that heclearly doesn’t feel the need to, now that I’ve seen every part of him. “N-no, sir.”
His right eye twitches, but other than that his face remains passive. Then he brushes past me and takes a seat at the breakfast table. When Pierre serves our food, he leaves us, quietly muttering about some carrots and potatoes. Suddenly it’s just Lincoln and me, and the room is thick with unspoken words.
I desperately want to break the silence. I want to talk about last night and the expectations of this new dynamic of our relationship, but I’m too scared. Not of Lincoln per se, but of doing or saying the wrong thing. What if I make this already-tense situation worse? And what if I already messed up and he’s considering whether I’m worth the effort of keeping around? What if I’m useless to him now? And just like that, I realize I’m already in too deep. Because more than any of that, I’m worried about his rejection. I think it would break me.
“Why are you eating oatmeal?” he eventually says, and I don’t miss the hint of annoyance in his tone.
I glance at the bowl, full of perfectly nutritious food that I decided to eat, and wonder what about it has made him so grumpy. Unless it’s just me he’s grumpy with in general. “I—I... It’s healthy and nutritious,” I blurt out my well-practiced mantra. Fuck him and his condescending attitude. Not everyone grew up with the kind of luxury he can afford.
He grinds his jaw, eyes raking over my face and torso. I’m wearing a cute little white sundress today, the one I was wearing that day in the library when I caught him watching me. “You will no longer wear panties without my permission when I am in the house, Imogen.”
He goes back to his scrambled eggs and wheat toast like he didn’t just say the most bizarre and random thing ever. What the hell does that have to do with oatmeal? I know I should bow my head and eat my breakfast. I’m his property and he can do whatever the hell he likes with me. I hear Larissa’s voice in myhead.Emotions are weakness.Never let them see your weakness.Do I heed her advice, which I seem to rely on less and less lately? It served me well on my grandfather’s estate, but I’ve already figured out the same rules don’t apply here. And something about the way Lincoln is sitting there, smug and arrogant and distant, snaps something inside me. “Excuse me?”
He looks up, arching an eyebrow. “Did you not hear what I said?”
“I heard you, but I don’t understand you. We were talking about oatmeal and then... then you said...” I stop talking, aware of my tone going up an octave, my words coming out fast and reckless.
“For the purposes of clarity, I said that you are not to wear panties when I am in the house. Is there something about that particular request that you don’t understand?”
Yes! Why the hell you’re making it!I want to shout, but instead I tighten my grip on my spoon and channel all my confusion and anger into the poor defenseless piece of silverware. “May I ask for what purpose, sir?” I ask, the hint of snark still there in my tone, unable to stop this new defiant side I’m discovering from spilling free. I don’t hate it. And I don’t miss his reaction to it either. His lips most definitely twitched, like he was trying to suppress a smirk.
“I would have thought that fairly obvious. No?”
