Page 97 of The Puppet Master
Luna doesn’t even flinch as a Keeper appears. I’m amazed when he doesn’t yell. He doesn’t run. He walks slowly, calmly, like he’s letting Luna finish.
“You may not be the man who lets women burn, but you aren’t agood guyeither. You aren’t the guy who saves the girl. You’re the guy who enslaves the woman he could’ve loved if only he wasn’t so busy loving himself.” The Keeper stops in front of us, but my eyes stay on Luna.
She turns her head toward the Keeper with so much confidence, I watch in amazement. I can’t even be scared. I feel numb.
“We were just leaving,” she tells him without him having to ask.
With one last contemptuous look at me—her chin high, her lips pursed—she turns where we came from and starts that way. I follow.
Both of us are quiet on the way down. I try to force anger into my body, try to conjure insult, but all I can do is wish for this to be over.
CHAPTER 23
LUNA
I’ve never been an anxious person.
Not once have I been in front of a crowd and lost my poise, gotten tongue-tied, or fumbled over my own legs. I’ve watched people clam up, sweat through their shirts, forget their own names—then wear that humiliation like a scar for the rest of their lives.
I thought I was good under pressure. Yesterday, I would have sworn it.
But now, perched on a stool in the permanently filthy bathroom while Sawyer dusts glitter across my eyelids, my heart trips over itself. My hands won’t hold steady. My body hums like a live wire.
It’s over.
No more training room. No more bargaining. No more pretending there’s time.
I tried.
I failed.
It is done.
Time for plan B. My mind swims, mapping out all the possibilities of what’s next. I wish I could say these last three weeks were the hardest, but I’m afraid the worst is yet to come.
After pulling the tiny brush away, Sawyer tells me I can open my eyes. He places the brush back in the pouch and pulls out a tube with yet another tiny brush. It never ends. When he brings it to my eyelashes, I look up and try not to blink.
He’s precise in his movements. When I told him I wouldn’t be putting on makeup, he didn’t hesitate to say that he’d do it himself. He’s done this before, I can tell. And I know he can tell that I haven’t.
“You have gorgeous eyelashes,” he says like he’s stating a fact versus flattering me. I don’t respond. We’ve hardly spoken since the hike yesterday. Nothing more than a few necessary words here and there.
“But I won’t lie, you do look good with a bit of color.” He pulls the brush back while he examines his handiwork on the one eye. He nods his approval before moving to the other.
“You know this is sick, right?”
He pops the brush into the tube to pick up more black goop.
“We aren’t dolls for you to dress up.”
He pauses halfway to my eye with his brow furrowed, and I know it’s because he’s confused at the wordwe. No matter how many times I bring up his victims, he needs to be reminded.
“I’m assuming you did this to the others?”
His lips curve, but his brow stays furrowed. I look up when he goes to work on my eyelashes.
“It’s just makeup,” he says, coating each strand of thin hair with the precision of a craftsman.
“It’s paint meant to convince women their faces are insufficient. It’s misogynistic, probably invented by a man just like you.”
