“But she’s not like the others, Pierre. How would we know she was truly safe? They’ve kept her hidden from me and the rest of the world for all these years. You think they wouldn’t find out and come for her again? How would I protect her then, Pierre?”
He shakes his head and jumps up from his chair, pacing the room. “You are letting your guilt cloud your decision-making,monami.”
“I made him a promise,” I snap. But it’s overwhelming guilt rather than anger that has my temper so close to fraying.
With a heavy sigh he stops pacing before placing his hand on my shoulder and giving me a reassuring squeeze. “You can’t keep living in the past, Lincoln, because one day soon it’s going to swallow you whole. And if you think that girl upstairs is going to offer you any kind of redemption, I’m afraid you’re setting yourself up for a very big fall.”
I hate that he knows me too well.
He drops his hand and walks out of the room, leaving me to glare at his retreating back.
Redemption? The monster the Brotherhood made me is far beyond any kind of redemption. It doesn’t matter that I believed Imogen was dead for eighteen years, because I should have known. I should have looked harder for the truth instead of believing their lies, no matter how convincing they were. God knows who that poor child was who perished in her stead, but it wasn’t Imogen. Because of my carelessness I left her at the mercy of the Brotherhood, and I broke a promise to the only people who ever gave a fuck about me. My only real family, at least the only one I ever actually knew. Because I never knewabout my biological family. Not until the Brotherhood had already tracked my sister down and sold her like a piece of meat.
Olivia was broken beyond repair by the time I found her. She didn’t know who I was when I came for her, saw only that I was one ofthem. I’ll never forget the fear in her eyes when I held her in my arms. I told her she was safe, praying that she’d believe me. Hoping that at least she would die knowing that somebody cared about her. I don’t know if she did and that memory haunts me still.
I left the Brotherhood the next day, swearing I would take every single one of them down. Eighteen years later and I’m still trying.
Chapter 6
Imogen
It was noon by the time I fell asleep yesterday, and I slept surprisingly well because it was almost six the following morning when I woke. Which is pretty exceptional, considering I’m a prisoner of a reclusive billionaire who’s sick and twisted enough to buy women like cattle. I half expected to wake with him standing over me, his mask removed and a lecherous grin on his face, but thankfully the room is empty.
Sunlight streams through the open drapes and the house is eerily quiet, which makes the rumbling of my stomach sound incredibly loud. I was too tired to eat more than one sandwich yesterday, and I was also a little suspicious of the purple sticky substance. I recall Lincoln declaring that the kitchen was well stocked and available to me, so I suppose I should go make myself some breakfast. Then at least I’ll have a full stomach and a clear head for whatever horrors this day has in store for me.
Freshly showered and dressed in a pair of leggings and a tank top, I make my way to the kitchen, anticipating bumping into Lincoln Knight on my way there. But I see no sign of any life until I get to the kitchen where Pierre is rolling out some pastry.
“What would you like for breakfast, mademoiselle?” he asks, still concentrating on the pastry.
I cannot remember a time in my life I’ve ever been asked what I’d like to eat. It’s a surprise to be asked it here, in the home of my captor. “Um. Do you have oatmeal?”
“Yes. How would you like it?”
“With water please.”
He lifts his head for the first time. “What? No milk? No honey? Berries?”
My mouth waters at the prospect of such decadence, but I remain firm. “No thank you.”
“Not even a little cinnamon?”
“Just water is fine, thank you,” I say with a polite smile that I know he cannot see, yet still it feels necessary. As does my breakfast of oatmeal and water.The body has no need for sugar or unnecessary additives, Imogen!Larissa’s words ring in my head.Oatmeal is healthy and nutritious. A healthy body and mindisthe key to strength, and strength is survival.
“Fine,” he huffs. “I will make it as soon as I am finished here.”
“Can I go out into the garden?” I ask, biting on my lip.
Pierre nods, focused on his pastry once more. “Mr. Knight said you are free to roam the house and garden.”
Right. Mr. Knight said so.I’m still nervous to open the door that leads me to the outside world, unsure what to expect. He said the garden was walled, so I anticipate it will be small, but I’m wrong. It must be at least half an acre, probably more—all tangled undergrowth and knotted brambles. I imagine they were once manicured gardens now lost to the ravages of time and neglect. A crumbling greenhouse juts out like an iron skyscraper in a city of green, its glass roof broken and vines spilling through the cracks. It’s simply... the most wondrous thing I have ever seen. I resist spinning around on the spot and squealing with delight, although I do it internally. Somehow, I appear to have stepped into a world of fairy tales and secret gardens, and all the pleasant memories of my childhood are right here withme, like precious buds entwined within the knots and thorns. I am Belle dancing with her Beast. I am Mary having adventures with Colin and Dickon. I am not a lonely orphan child, unloved and unwanted.
Right beside the kitchen is a square patch of paving stones, which appear to have been scrubbed clean of the moss that crawls over the garden walls. And in the middle is a small metal table with two chairs. Their green paint is peeling and faded from the cruel sun. Still, they look inviting to me and I take a seat, tilting my face toward the sunshine and enjoying the warmth on my skin. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with clean air and the subtle scent of jasmine. I’ve already decided this will be my favorite place in the world.
I have never felt so... unobserved? Would that be the word? Even with the threat of Lincoln’s cameras watching my every move, I do notfeelthem. I feel no eyes on me. No judgment. There is no one standing guard, waiting for me to commit some minor indiscretion. I believe I could sing a very loud nursery rhyme and nobody would care to stop me. I bet I could even curse. I could scream obscenities and ruffle nothing but the long grasses, already swaying in the gentle morning breeze. I don’t do any of those things though. Of course I don’t. They are foolish and don’t get me any closer to my goal. Finding a way out of this house.
Freedom.
I suspect what will bring me closer to those goals is unfortunately not within this beautiful garden, but inside the house. The place where I still have so much to explore. If I look hard enough, I am sure I’ll find a way out. And if I don’t then find an escape, surely time alone will offer me an opportunity for one. And while I wait, I’ll ensure that both Pierre and Lincoln learn to trust me.
