Chapter 14

Lincoln

I wince when I look in the mirror. I was distracted last night and didn't do myself any favors. I still won, but these fucking bruises are going to be a bitch for the next week or so.

Do you want to take a guess at what's been distracting me?

I bet you'll figure it out if you think back to my conversation with my employee on her porch fifteen days ago.

I swear she's been doing everything in her power to tempt me since I told her I'd keep my hands to myself.

It's been fucking torture.

My job used to be my sanctuary; now it's hell.

She's everywhere!

Her seductive curves have even infiltrated my dreams and I wake up with my cock in hand more than I don't, and I swear I can still taste her on my tongue. And let's not talk about the mammoth effort it took to keep myself in check when she was drawing a test tattoo on my bicep. The temptation to kiss her almost won out.

Almost.

"Morning, boss," she calls as she breezes through the door.

And that's another thing. She's taken to calling me boss in that sexy raspy voice of hers and doesn't that do something to me. I groan under my breath and step out of the bathroom and straight into her lingering coconut scent.

Jesus. Can't a guy catch a break?

"Morning," I grunt, then head to the coffee machine. I make quick work of our coffee, then drop hers at the reception desk.

She looks up at me absently. "Thank you." Her eyes widen when she sees my face and her small hand reaches up. I flinch away and her brows dip. "Tell me the other guy came off worse than you."

I smirk. "The other guy came off worse than me. I was a little distracted, but got my shit under control and laid him flat." All it took was for him to tell me he fucked my little sister last night and he was done, not that he realized the gravity of what he said.

She tsks me and steps away. My fighting doesn't impress her like it does most other women, and I find it intriguing. A lot of women find the bad boy—or who they perceive to be a bad boy—appealing.

Not that I'm a bad boy.

Yes, I fight.

It started as a way to deal with my anger over my sister being stolen from our front yard, then it turned into a way to make money that I could donate to Operation Underground Railroad. They do incredible work supporting victims of child and sex trafficking and do their best to shut down as many operations as they're able.

But she doesn't know that's why I fight.

I stroll to the front door to unlock it, and as I'm heading back toward the office, Sophie grabs my hand and leads me to my station. "Sit." She pushes at my shoulder and I drop into my chair, wincing as I do. She has a tube in her hand as she pushes between my thighs, and I have to close my eyes because her tits are right there.

I could lean forward and suck one into my mouth.

I could make her moan again.

I could do so many things to her.

Things I'm certain she's never experienced. But I promised. And above everything, I pride myself on being a man of my word.

When her fingers touch my skin with a gentle press, I open my eyes and study the tube in her hand. "What's that?"

"Arnica. It should help to reduce the bruising." While she tends to the area, her warm eyes remain focused on her task, so I take a moment to study her. She's so beautiful, she hurts my eyes and I wish I were ten years younger. "Do you have bruises anywhere else?"

"Yeah, but I think you'd probably need a bigger tube." I dip my chin toward the tube in her hand.

Her eyes widen. "Take off your shirt."

"Bossy," I huff, but grab my T-shirt at the back of my neck to drag it off. Her gasp is like a gunshot in the quiet room when she sees my ribs.

"Lincoln," she murmurs as her eyes trace the large discolored area across the right side of my torso, following the dark purple contusion as it wraps around my side to my back. She squeezes the tube until a significant amount of the ointment is covering her hand, then she rubs them together and lays them on my ribs. "I'm sorry if this hurts, but hopefully it'll help."

I grunt because having her hands on me has rendered me incapable of speech. She gently massages the ointment over the front of my torso, her eyes glistening. A tear falls over her bottom lash and her bottom lip trembles. I can't stop my hands from reaching for the backs of her thighs to anchor her to me in some way. "Soph," I whisper. "Don't cry."

"Why do you do this to yourself?" She glances up at my eyes and the pain in hers rips my breath from my lungs in a gush. I shrug. "Tell me, so I understand," she murmurs. "I hate that you fight. Tell me there's a good reason you put your body on the line like this."

I blow out a long breath and start from the beginning. "When I was seven, I was playing in the front yard of our home with my younger sister while Mom was taking a nap. Elizabeth was three, one month off turning four." I push past the acid that always rises from my gut when I think about her. Her sweet face and fierce spirit. "She … uh … she fell over and skinned her knees, so I took her over to the porch, calmed her down, and ran inside to get the first aid kit." I pause for a breath and try to slow my heart rate. Even though it happened so long ago, it's still so fucking raw. "When I came back outside, she was gone." Sophie gasps and I chance a look at her face; she's turned the same color as the cream she's rubbing on my body. "I frantically ran up and down the street looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found. I was inside two minutes, tops." Her soulful gaze is swimming with tears and when she blinks, they drop over her lashes and trail down her gorgeous cheeks. I brush them away with my thumbs as I continue. "I woke Mom, and she called the cops. The neighbors searched the neighborhood until the early hours of the morning, but she was gone. She just vanished." I close my eyes and Mom's accusing glare fills my vision, stealing my breath. "I'll never forgive myself for losing my sister."

"Oh, Linc." She cups my cheeks, bringing my eyes to her teary ones. "You weren't to blame. You were only a kid. There should have been an adult supervising. It should never have been your responsibility to care for her." She wraps her body around mine and tugs me into her breasts in comfort. I suck her intoxicating scent into my lungs, wrap my arms around her, and absorb her sympathy—something I've not allowed myself to accept before.

"Yeah." I've heard that before. "Mom was questioned about it and Dad was beyond furious. They argued constantly after her disappearance and he eventually left." I can still hear him shouting at her as she sobbed. Blaming her. Always blaming. "But still … I was the one that left her alone and vulnerable."

After long, quiet minutes, she pulls away from me, leaving me adrift, and swipes at her cheeks. Her face is blotchy, her eyes are red, and she sniffs before cupping my bristly cheeks again. "I'll repeat … you were just a kid, Linc. It wasn't your fault, and I'll tell you every day until you believe me." Every day? I shouldn't read into her words, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't. She adds more ointment to her hands and moves behind me. Her noisy inhalation makes me look at her over my shoulder. Her eyes are drifting all over my back. "You never said that you were in the photo," she says almost accusingly. I shrug and she returns to her task, massaging the ointment into my flesh tenderly. "It's stunning and so beautifully haunting. More so now that I've learned about your loss and how you feel responsible even though you shouldn't," she murmurs reverently. She's quiet for a long time and I sink into the silence. "D-di-did you ever find her?"

I shake my head, unable to answer her over the emotion clawing at my throat.

"I'm so sorry, Lincoln. Nobody should have to experience that." The genuine sadness in her voice guts me.

The worst thing is not knowing where she is.

Not knowing if my sister is being tortured somewhere or if her suffering is over and she's gone from this world.

I've always hoped she was adopted on the black market by a loving family who couldn't have kids of their own. A family who loved her and raised her with care and kindness. Holding onto that hope is the only thing that's gotten me through my darkest days.

Sophie carefully rubs the ointment into my back, sniffing occasionally, and when her hands leave my body, ice replaces the warmth of her touch. I want to keep her hands on me, but I promised not to cross that line again. She holds my T-shirt up and I take it from her.

"Thank you." For taking care of me and for listening to my sad and sorry tale I want to add but don't. She's the first person I've shared that story with in years and I'm unsure what possessed me to open up to her.