by Linnea May
The thing is, Riley has always looked up to me, and for me, that was part of the problem. I hate it because I was such a bad role model for her and she admired a side of me that I was never proud of.
That’s exactly why I told him. That’s why I shared this tainted truth about myself with the Puppetmaster, fully aware that I am risking everything. I was brutally honest in the note I wrote to him, telling him things that no one outside my Brooklyn community knows about me.
It wasn’t pretty. It’s nothing to take pride in. On the contrary, it’s a heavy cloak of guilt that’s been weighing me down for years.
It was ugly. I was an ugly person back then.
And it’s irreversible.
It’s an invisible mark on everything I am, body and soul, and I wish for nothing more than to forget about it. But I know I can’t.
And I shouldn’t. Guilt like that is a reminder. A reminder to never let it happen again.
And now he knows about it, too.
He knows that about me and he still wants me to be his puppet.
Even Riley doesn’t know about the horrible truth in that note. And she doesn’t need to.
But I’m glad she knows about him now—and about the fact that I’m about to do something insane by accepting the invitation to become his puppet.
“Wow, that’s... crazy,” Riley says after I conclude.
“I know.” I agree.
And that’s all she says in response to my confession. She doesn’t try to talk me out of it, she doesn’t try to warn me, she doesn’t pry for details. Instead she just finds her very own way of giving me her blessing by not saying anything at all. I know that’s how she is. She’s always been like that, cautious, reclusive, and overly considerate. It can be annoying, to be honest, but today I greatly appreciate it.
My eyes scan my living room, latching onto the suitcase that’s lying open in the middle of the room. It’s the smallest one I own, the one I’d normally use for a short weekend trip or business travel. That’s all I’m allowed to bring with me. And he told me that I shouldn’t worry about bringing too many clothes—because I won’t be wearing much while I’m with him.
My cheeks glow at the thought of it, only fueled further by the rapid beating of my heart.
“And I thought I was the mad one,” my sister goes on, giggling before she asks, “Wanna know what I did to get fired?”
A wide grin appears on my face, and I plant myself on the couch, my feet dangling over the armrest as I lie down on the worn-out fabric, grateful for a little distraction.
“Yes I do, and I’m listening!”
Chapter 18
Alena
I’ve been in a daze of disbelief for the past week.
Seven days. That’s how much time I was given after he revealed his decision to me.
A decision that I still can’t quite fathom.
My life has turned upside down within less than two weeks. I quit my job, I attended the Puppetmaster’s hunt for the first time in years—and now I’m sitting on a freaking private jet that’s headed for New York City to play a seductive and potentially dangerous game with a man who is as promising as he is mysterious.
I still don’t know his name, and that’s one thing that really irks me, especially now that he knows so much about me. A part of me doubts the decision to hand everything over to him this easily. I was running out of time, and instead of taking a step back to think, I hurried to fill out everything he asked for, just so my chances wouldn’t be jeopardized by something as stupid as the timer running out.
This is all so crazy.
How can he still want me after the things I told him? How can he still want someone as his puppet who is as tainted and wrong as I am?
As I sit on the softest leather seat that has ever hugged my body, and my absentminded gaze trails across the landscape thousands of feet below, I begin to wonder whether he wants to punish me.
Maybe the Puppetmaster chooses his puppets based on their sins? Maybe he tries to correct those who deserve to be punished. He is strict, and while his hand may give pleasure to those who submit to it, maybe that’s not his reason for doing it.
I told him that I feel a strong urge to be put in my place. To be beaten and hurt until I scream for mercy—but not receiving any. I know that I need to experience it at least once.
And I feel like I deserve it.
“Miss Prey?”
The friendly female voice yanks me back to the present. I’ve been so deep in thought that I didn’t notice the change in altitude as the jet started approaching our destination. The only stewardess on board, a young blonde woman dressed in a navy-blue uniform with a pencil skirt and a bright yellow scarf, smiles at me and gestures for me to fasten my seatbelt.
“We’re getting ready for landing,” she pipes, and I nod on instinct.
“I’m sorry, I was just… yes, thank you.”
She smiles again and walks off without any further comment, seemingly oblivious to my awkward stuttering. This woman may be the closest to a humanoid robot I’ve ever met. There was nothing in her facial expression that could tell me anything about how she really felt about me or this whole endeavor.
Does she know who I am and where I’m going? Is she working for him or for a private jet company?
Oh my God, I feel so stupid for asking these questions, even if it’s just in my head.
I still can’t believe I’m here. I feel so out of place and have been gawking like a little kid ever since the driver picked me up from my apartment. It’s no secret that the Puppetmaster is loaded, though no one knows what he does for a living. But I had no idea he could be this rich…private-jet rich.
It’s by far the smallest plane I have ever been on. Sixteen seats—I counted—and an extra seating area that consists of a sofa with a bar right next to it. I’m the only passenger, which makes it extra awkward, but it allowed me to choose the best seat of all, right next to an unusually large window. It’s so huge that it takes up the space reserved for two or three seats on a regular plane, and it’s so freaking soft that it feels as if I’m being hugged by leathery clouds as we make our way to NYC.
Thank God I wasn’t too shy to accept the stewardess’s offer for some champagne, even though that kind of turned awkward, too. She didn’t just bring me a glass but an entire bottle, which has been resting in an ice bucket right next to me for the entire flight. I was so nervous that I refilled the glass quickly after emptying it, but I soon reached a point when I could feel the booze going to my head—and the bottle reached an embarrassingly low level.
Would they tell him how much I drank? Would anyone accuse me of being an alcoholic and tell the Puppetmaster to reconsider his choice? Do they all work for him and are here to watch me and report back?
Or am I being paranoid?
My pulse speeds when I see the familiar skyscrapers of Manhattan appear out the window. Even from this far away one can see the sparkling tower of the One World Trade Center, peaking above everything else south of the gigantic green lung that is Central Park.
My heart warms at the sight, though I was never aware of harboring any warm feelings toward my hometown. I haven’t been here in years, and that was by choice.
Then again, I’m headed to Manhattan, not Brooklyn. Manhattan was always considered the golden island, the place where people work but don’t live because no one can afford the rent there.
And now I’m not just headed for Manhattan, but for the Upper East Side. I shake my head, as if to say no to the notion, even though it’s true.
I want to free myself of the idea that I don’t belong there, that I don’t deserve to be treated like a princess for even a little bit. But I can’t.
We touch ground and the bump as the plane lands feels like a wakeup punch, allowing for no further daydreaming and pondering as I make my way to meet up with the man who has been haunting my dreams, good and bad.
“Ready?” the stewardess returns to my seat after the plane has come to
a halt.
I nod silently, following her gesture to get up and out of the most comfortable seat I have ever had on a flight in my life. I’m a sentimental and grateful person, so I can’t help hesitating before I deplane, caressing the soft leather one more time and glancing around the beautiful plane interior before I follow her outside.
There’s a car waiting for me, another black limousine similar to the one that picked me up from my apartment in Boston. I feel a soft sting in my chest as I think of my sister who had hoped to get to Boston before I left, so we could see each other before I vanish for God knows how long. She couldn’t make it in time because there was still too much for her to take care of before she could leave her old life behind. It’s funny how we both decided to put an unexpected bend in our calm lives at the very same time—and I’m not sure which one of us is the most reckless.
The driver opens the limousine door for me, displaying the same friendly but discreet smile that I saw on the stewardess. It really is the exact same kind of expression, making me wonder whether there’s a training course that teaches that skill.
I slide into the back seat of the limousine, sitting stiff and motionless as the driver takes his seat and starts the engine.
And suddenly, it feels like there really is no way to turn back.
Chapter 19
Raad
I wouldn’t say that I’m nervous waiting for my new puppet to arrive, but there’s an unrest this time that trumps any previous arrangement.
The house feels significantly emptier when Dorota is not around. That’s something I notice every single time, and every single time the impact of her absence baffles me anew. It always comes with mixed feelings at the expression she gives me when I tell her that her services won’t be needed for a while and she can retreat to her own apartment and enjoy a paid vacation until I need her to oversee running the house again.
That’s the excuse I use, a simple necessity for her presence, because I’m either too busy or not around enough to maintain the place. The townhouse has been in my family’s possession since my parents got married. They bought it to make a home here, to build a family and a life together. A life that was cut short by my mother’s sudden death. How my father’s second wife, Nate’s mother, could ever tolerate living here when it was so obvious that my father never got over my mother’s death and thus was unable to leave this place behind is beyond me.
This house has always been theirs—and mine. It’s a constant in my life that remained solid, no matter what was happening to me or my family. The only thing that changed over time was a feline companion I agreed to adopt upon Dorota’s wish. It’s been about five years since she convinced me to take in an abandoned kitten who was meant as a Christmas present for her spoiled niece. The kid had no interest in the cat after it turned out that it was rather aversive to being handled like a dress-up doll.
Dorota took it upon herself to take care of the cat before consulting with me. She brought it to my house, which is also her home for most of the year, and despite my admittedly half-hearted protest, the cat stayed. I’m pretty sure Dorota picked a name for it, but I never bothered to ask. It’s a huge, fat, white Persian cat, and the only reason I was willing to tolerate its company was the fact that it usually keeps to itself and constantly has this aloof, somewhat grumpy-looking expression on its face.
Dorota loves that little fucker, but she still leaves it alone with me whenever I send her on one of her vacations, arguing that the cat’s routine should not be messed up by being taken away from its home.
It trailed off into the garden a while ago, and for all I know, it could be a day or two before I see it again, which is perfectly fine with me.
The time of Alena’s arrival is drawing closer, and with each minute that passes, I find myself moving closer to the front of the house. I leave my usual spot on the terrace, first to retreat to the kitchen, which I then leave to plant myself in the sitting room right next to the main door. I want to know of her arrival before the doorbell announces it.
When I hear the familiar sound of the limousine coming to a halt in the driveway, I rise from my seat, putting aside a newspaper that I was merely using as a prop to appear busy, even though no one was watching me. It’s vital to be in control of the way you’re being perceived by others, and the best way to do that is to maintain a certain level of poise even when in solitude.
I stroll languidly toward the door, my hand resting on the handle before the intrusive sound of the doorbell echoes through the hallway.
There’s a satisfying magic in the way my puppets look at me when I first open the door for them. They don’t smile. They don’t greet me the way you would any other time someone opens their home to them. Most of them stand there like a cement pillar, shoulders bunched up to their ears and their painted lips pressed into a thin line, their alert eyes finding mine.
Alena, however, doesn’t look at me at all. She’s standing in front of the door wearing a cute little navy-blue dress with a white collar, the hem ending above her knees and revealing her long slender legs. She’s wearing heels in a similar blue color, and a light gray jacket is draped over her shoulders. Her brown hair is cascading down her shoulders in thick waves, kept in place at the temple with a hairpin that makes her look younger than she is.
The sight of her is stunning. She looks like the perfect little doll, all dressed up in her innocent yet alluring get-up, and she’s so immaculate that ruining her will be a fucking pleasure.
But she doesn’t look my way.
Instead, her eyes trail over her shoulder, as if she was afraid of someone following her. I can tell that she hears the door opening by the way her ears twitch, but she doesn’t show any other reaction to it at first. Her gaze remains focused on something behind her, somewhere close to the limousine she was delivered in. Dan, my driver, is instructed to tell her to go ahead and enter the house on her own, while he stays back and takes care of what little luggage she was allowed to bring. The way she’s eyeing him now makes me wonder if she’s worried about something.
I don’t want to speak to draw her attention to me, so I just wait until the little madame realizes her mistake on her own. It’s yet another nuisance that fuels my anger—and my desire to put her in her place, just as she wants me to.
She better not be doing this on purpose.
When she finally turns her head to face the master she allegedly wants to serve so desperately, her eyebrows arch, as if she is surprised to see me standing in front of her.
There’s something written across her expression that I can’t place, and I hate that. Narrowing my eyes, I jut my chin forward, demanding an explanation without saying a word.
“Sir,” she says in a low voice. “I’m sorry. This is such a beautiful place, my mind wandered.”
She’s lying. There’s something on her mind, and she’s hiding it from me.
“I told you I hate liars, Alena.”
Her eyes widen in surprise and her brows rise in a strong arch.
“Why do you think I’m—”
“Get inside.”
My demand cuts her off right away. Another sign that she’s lying to me. Liars are always happy to be silenced.
Gnawing on her lower lip, she slides past me when I make room for her to come inside.
“Follow me.”
“What about my—”
“Dan will take care of it.”
I don’t wait for Alena to respond but rely on her following me as I make my way to the back of the house. She won’t spend much time down here, but it’s where everything starts. Always.
I lead her to the small living room that’s next to the open kitchen and dining area, which faces the backyard next to my office. It’s a small, secluded room that hardly ever gets used, but it’s perfect for my intentions with her, especially because it has a door that can be closed to make sure we’re undisturbed.
She’s following closely, attentive and a little shy when I close the door behind me aft
er we’ve stepped inside the room. It’s bright and airy in here, one wall lined with floor-length windows shielded with white sheer curtains, still letting in the light while protecting us from curious eyes.
Alena stands in the middle of the room, her back straight and her shoulders pulled back a little too much to make her stance appear natural. She’s looking at me once again with that unreadable expression on her face.
She’s here. She’s right here, offering herself to me in a way that no sane person would ever offer themselves to another. And while the timing is not how I planned it, there’s a jubilant voice rising up inside me, an impatient roar to finally bring this project to an end.
“We’re starting right away,” I tell her, taking two steps to close in on her. “And we’ll do it properly.”
Once again, Alena doesn’t falter an inch.
That will change, come time.
She looks up at me, expectant and ready.
“Yes, sir,” a steady voice affirms. “And that means…?”
“What that means is this,” I growl, irritated at her pushy inquiry. “I will sit down on that couch and watch you undress in front of me. And once you’ve bared that beautiful body, my property, before my eyes, you’ll get down on your knees, crawl over to me on all fours, and sit down at my feet.”
Silence stretches between us as she processes my orders, not blinking an eye, but shifting ever so slightly on her heels.
“Do you understand?” I snarl.
And it’s then that my puppet awakes.
Chapter 20
Alena
My response to his command comes to me naturally and within an instant. It makes me forget everything. It makes me forget what I saw outside his house. It makes me forget what was going through my head as I waited for him to open the door.
