Page 26 of The Puppet Master
I lift my hand to her shoulder but freeze before I can touch cashmere. My index finger twitches—hesitating. Hovering. Then I rest my hand back on the bed.
Physical contact is crucial in the beginning. The power of intimate touch during moments of heightened awareness is truly unmatched. It’s a safety signal for an overwhelmed nervous system, an imprint of calm within chaos.
But right now, I think I’d be pushing it if I tried to hold her. I don’t think she’d let me.
“I know you must think I’m a terrible person, Luna. I don’t see that changing. But it’s important to me that you know I have your best interests at heart. I don’t want to hurt you… If you resist me, they’ll kill you. Then they’ll kill me. So, in a way, we’re in this together.”
Her hand slides down her face before she turns toward me, expression hard as stone. A rejection stronger than words.
“Will they really kill you?” she asks.Notthe ‘go fuck yourself’ that I was expecting.
I nod, confident yet resigned. I’m not even sure if it’s a lie or what the intended consequence might be for failure. I’m too proud to ask and too prepared to worry.
“Then I guess it’s me who should be sorry.” Her eyes run the length of my torso, sizing me up before returning to my face. “Because I'm not going to be anyone’s whore.”
My front teeth tap, three even beats that pulse through my skull, silence encasing us as cold and procedural as this girl’s life is about to get. Part of me—the bastard part—likes that she thinks she stands a chance.
I wait a moment before nodding what she must think is resignation. She can have the victory, for now.
“Come on.” I stand and nod toward the door. “I want to show you around.”
CHAPTER 6
LUNA
Ihave never been more humiliated in my life.
Streaks of heat climb both sides of my neck as Sawyer and I walk down the empty path, nothing but his comically large stockings padding the bottoms of my feet. With every step, my heel crunches on the loose pile of thick wool sagging around my ankles, the irritation sharp enough that I almost yank the stockings off. Let my toes numb, let textured concrete dig into the soles of my feet. It’d be easier to run, if needed.Whenneeded.
I wonder if he’ll ever give me shoes.
“And then the Keepers, who are like guards with horrendous constipation, wear black. This symbolizes…” Sawyer prattles on, his elbow bumping my tightly crossed arm.
His mouth hasn’t stopped moving since we left the peach building. Valuable details—the Shadow Sanctum’s hierarchy, roles, structure—sprinkled between nonsensical fluff: the“joyous” celebrations they throw, the food grown right on the property, the lack of disease, symbolism with useless backstories.
No mention of what just took place. No pitiful looks, no cheeks flushing with embarrassment. To him, it’s as if it never happened.
That isn’t normal.Thisisn’t normal.
I pinch the skin at my bicep as silence overtakes us, tensing when Sawyer’s swaying hand brushes the outer edge of my back pocket. When my arms hung at my sides, he grazed my fingers with every step—a constant swipe at my comfort zone, inching closer even as my right foot crept along the edge of the sidewalk. It’s hard to tell if he’s crowding me on purpose or if no one ever taught him boundaries.
“So you’re a Cultivator then,” I say just to end the silence when it creeps too long, the absence of his voice more chilling than its company.
My eyes scan the treeline. Miles of forest wait just beyond, easy to get lost within but harder to be found. What would a sane person do? Run? Hide?
The wall Sawyer described isn’t visible from this trail. There aren’t any men in black slinging weapons. The only marked threat is the man standing next to me, and I’m pretty sure I could outrun him.
“Yes.” Sawyer nods.
“And… What does that mean exactly? What do you do for them?”
He scratches his arm while drifting to his left, just enough that finally, I feel like I can breathe. “Most of us are farmers or cooks. A lot of people came from construction backgrounds, so they’re the builders. Then we have those who either work the supply chain or they sew clothing, do woodwork, and whatever else is needed for the collective.”
“And you?”
The pause only lasts a second, but after Sawyer’s endless rambling, it sticks out. I turn my head just enough to peek at the wrinkle between his brows, the dimple shifting in his cheek, the small lift of his shoulders as he pockets his hands. Embarrassment?
Real? Fake? I hate how hard it is to tell.
