“Yes.”
“Exactly what kind of work do you do, Lincoln?”
He dusts his lips over my temple. “All kinds of work, angel. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Easy for him to say when he feels the need to have an entire armory locked in his basement. “Are we safe here?”
He presses a soft kiss on my knuckles. “Always.”
The one-word answers tell me to stop asking questions, but I can’t. “Then why do you have an armory?”
“Because the people I run into aren’t always nice people, angel.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “Like the Brotherhood.”
“Exactly.”
Another shiver. Is there something about Lincoln that I’ve been missing? Something underneath his kindness that’s genuinely dangerous? “Do you work with them?”
“No.”
This is growing even more confusing. “So, how do yourun intothem, then?”
His tongue darts out and he licks his bottom lip. “Do you trust me?”
I take a moment to consider my answer before I reply. “Yes.”
“Then don’t ask me questions I can’t answer. I promise you I don’t work for the Brotherhood. I abhor what they do. And I would never ever put you in danger, and that is all you need to concern yourself with.”
I trust him but that doesn’t mean I want to be kept in the dark. I reach up and trace my fingertips over his scars. “You keep so much of yourself hidden from me, Lincoln.”
His eyes fill with pain and he pulls me into a hug, pressing my face to his chest and stroking my hair. “Only the dark parts, angel. But I show you the deepest and most vulnerable parts of myself. Nobody else gets that part of me but you.”
“I want to see your darkness too, Linc,” I whisper. “I want to see all of you. Will you ever trust me enough to show me who you really are?”
He kisses the top of my head. “One day, angel. I promise.”
I let myself melt into his embrace, trusting that he would tell me if he could. Whatever secrets he hides, they seem to torture him, and I know how that feels. So I trust what I can see and feel. His care. His protection. His love. And for a girl like me, that should be more than enough.
Chapter 52
Lincoln
A text from Edgar flashes up on my watch.
That lead you had me look into seems promising. Maybe even what we’ve been looking for all along. Sent you some info.
My pulse spikes. What we’ve been looking for? That means we may have just found ourselves a Rook. I had him research Fraser Lane after seeing his name in Farnham’s study, and it seems like it’s paid off.
I type out a quick thanks to him, itching to get to my basement and assess what he’s sent me. Imogen is reading, her head on my lap as we cuddle together on the sofa in the library. I run my hand over the soft skin of her arm. Although I trust her enough to allow her into my basement, whatever Edgar has uncovered isn’t the kind of thing I want to dive into while she’s there with me, until I at least have an idea of what it is he’s sent me. There could be a link to her father for all I know, and while I know I need to tell her about our connection, I just have no fucking idea how to go about that. Especially now that I know what she was told about her parents’ murders. The fallout couldbe disastrous, and the only thing more painful than keeping secrets from her is the thought of losing her. “I have to go check something, angel. I won’t be long.”
She sits up, gives me a soft smile and nods. “Okay. I’ll finish my book.”
I rest my lips on the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair. How can I ever tell her the truth and risk losing this? I didn’t intend to tell her about my armory, but when she asked, it seemed natural to give her the truth. To give her something in return for her trust. Her reaction was as positive as I could have hoped for. She sat in my basement with me for an hour afterward, reading her book. But then I saw her shivering and forgot how cold it is down there for someone not used to it, so we came back up to the main house. At least showing her the room seems to have satisfied her curiosity somewhat, and for that I’m grateful.
I slip out of the room and head down to my basement. I’ve been there only a few minutes when I hear Pierre’s distinctive footfall on the stairs.
“Are you spying on me, old friend?”
