Chapter 36
Imogen
Everything hurts! Every single atom of my being is sore and scratchy. My shoulders are on fire from having to sleep with my arms cuffed behind my back. There’s a deep dull aching in my core that feels like period cramps but definitely isn’t. My eyelids hurt when I open them, blinking in the bright sunlight that creeps through the gap in the curtain.
With a groan, I push myself up and glance around the room. No sign of Lincoln, obviously. He emptied his cum in me and then left me to clean myself up. Which I know isn’t entirely true; he did offer to clean me after. Doesn’t negate the fact that he behaved like the spawn of Satan before that. My poor pussy throbs with the memory. My core aching with the need to climax. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him to punish me, but it was still better than ignoring me. And he hasn’t even come in here to let me out of these damn cuffs! How am I supposed to get dressed?
I ponder this question while using the bathroom, awkwardly managing to wipe myself with some tissue by squatting over the toilet bowl. I find no easy solution to my clothes dilemma though. If I owned a bathrobe, I could perhaps get it over my shoulders, but even so it would fall open. I could wriggle intoa T-shirt or a tank top, but my arms wouldn’t get through the holes. Perhaps I could at least slide my way into some panties. Except I’m not supposed to wear them. And after yesterday...
I groan with frustration and realize my only option is to go to the spawn of Satan himself and ask him nicely to uncuff me. I step gingerly outside of my room. Not that I expect anyone to be roaming the halls, but I still feel weird wandering around here naked. The door to Lincoln’s bedroom is open so I figure he must have gone for breakfast. He’s not in the kitchen though, and thankfully neither is Pierre, who I would be mortified to find me wandering the hallways naked and cuffed. A little further exploration leads me to the conclusion that Hellspawn is in his study in the library.
He simply lifts his head from his laptop when I enter, unsurprised to see me in my current predicament in his doorway. Well, of course he’s not, seeing as how he’s responsible for said state.
I summon all my good breeding and in as polite a tone as I can muster, I ask, “Could you please remove my cuffs, sir?”
He sucks on his top lip and stares at me, like he’s considering my request. For a second, I’m worried he might actually refuse, but he gets up from his chair, pulls a key from the pocket of his pants and undoes the lock.
I shrug away from him, rubbing at my sore arms to try and encourage blood flow. They ache so much I want to cry. Although if I’m honest, it’s not the physical pain that makes me want to cry, it’s him. He left me all alone. Again. And that shouldn’t hurt me, but it does. Tears burn behind my eyes.
“Do you have anything you’d like to say to me, Imogen?” he asks.
Fuck you!Obviously, I do not say that. Instead, I offer him as heartfelt an apology as I can muster, which for some reason makes him frown.
What the hell does he want from me? I don’t know how tobe what he wants. I’m defiant and he punishes me. I’m obedient and he gets annoyed and pushes me away. Is he trying to break me? I want to hang my head in defeat, but I’m much better than that so I hold his glare with my own. I’m done playing his ridiculous games. I’m done trying to be who I was taught I had to be. I’m done being whoever Lincoln wants me to be.
I’m done. Lincoln Knight won’t break me. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter 37
Lincoln
She apologized. After I fucked her with no remorse and then left her alone in handcuffs, sheapologizedto me. I may have fucked this test of mine up. Except,she’s there. Hiding beneath the veneer of obedience is the woman I’m searching for. The one full of fire and determination. The one desperate to tell me to go fuck myself.
Just a little more prodding and she’ll come out to play.
It would be so easy to simply tell Imogen all of the things I’d like her to be and do. I could tell her that I’d like her to stop calling me sir because she thinks she has to, or that I don’t want her to agree with everything I say. I don’t want her to follow all my rules, and not only because I enjoy punishing her for any infractions far too much. I long for her disobedience. For her fire. And it pains me to see her so confused while she tries to figure out what I want from her, when all I want is whoever she truly is.
But I’m not sure she knows who that person is, and if I tell her who I think she is, then I risk her becoming the person I want her to be, and not her true self at all. Because as much as IthinkI see glimpses of the real Imogen, the one I love to touch and kiss and defile, perhaps that’s simply another constructionand not her at all. And if don’t have the real her, then this is all meaningless. I cannot have a relationship with someone who believes she’s my property and acts accordingly. I want a partner who has agency, one who isn’t afraid to tell me no. Because if I don’t have that, then I will never truly have her love or her respect.
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
Her face is unreadable once more and her armor is back in place, but she’s fighting to keep it intact. The cracks are forming, spiderwebs appearing across her perfectly constructed veneer. “Should there be, sir?”
“You seem like you have something else you’d like to say to me. I’ll remind you that you can speak freely in this house, Imogen. You’re free to be yourself.”
“Free to touch myself too, sir? Isn’t that what you said?” The fury in her is desperate to spill out. But the way she maintains that calm steady tone to her voice is incredible. She’s incredible.
I suppress a smile. “And you are, angel. But when you’re being punished, I’m going to do everything in my power to see that punishment through. I didn’t say you couldn’t get yourself off. I simply made it more difficult for you to do so.”
She elevates her chin ever so slightly but she doesn’t press the point further. Instead, she raises another. “I don’t like being made to walk around the house naked. It’s degrading,” she says, color saturating her cheeks.
I lean back in my chair, studying her face intently. Does she actually feel degraded or is she playing me? She’s a mistress of manipulation. Like me, a product of her environment—raised to survive using whatever means at her disposal. While I don’t hold that against her, it does make me much more cautious of her motives. There’s the faintest tremble to her bottom lip before she schools her expression once more. She is either the most incredible actress I have ever encountered or she’s telling me the truth.
“Why is it degrading?”
Her nostrils flare, but the rest of her body language remains unbothered—passive. “Why is it degrading to be forced to walk around this house naked?” There’s only a hint of accusation in her tone. What comes out of her mouth is always more difficult for her to control than her body.
I sit forward, resting my forearms on my thighs. I’m close enough now to touch her, but she doesn’t show any outward signs of discomfort. The only movement is the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the occasional flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks.
