Page 17 of The Master and the Marionette

“Oh really?” I cough out a laugh. “Well, now I’m definitely wearing it!” I try to bump Dessin’s arm with my shoulder as I storm past him, but he snags my wrist.

“Hell no,” he growls under his breath. The sound of his hardening anger curls my toes in the boots Runa lent me.

“Fine. Would you like to take it off yourself?”

Dessin blinks, partially stunned, partially amused.

“Greystone would like it. Maybe he would be more equipped to handle this,” I bite.

What has gotten into me? Jealousy? Over Runa? It’s like an inconsistent flicker of fire. Some moments it burns me and spreads like a virus. Others, it’s extinguished. Nothing more than a slow ribbon of smoke.

I glance up at him, my cheeks burning as if I’d fallen asleep in the sun.

Dessin narrows his eyes. “You know, I’m certain Aurick’s thongs cover more flesh than this. But why not? It’s only a game.”

I’d laugh at his Aurick jab if it weren’t for his use of the word game. As if it’s a weapon. A tool to hurt me. A reminder that he wouldn’t actually touch me if we weren’t pretending.

Without further discussion, we follow Rune to the Nightamous Horde. A series of scattered caves that have been carved into taverns, miniature Gothic castles, and entryways to candlelit homes. A village of stone and fire. A kingdom of the shadows and dark elf descendants.

Runa reminds us to keep our cloaks over our heads, shielding half our faces from being recognized as outsiders. This act is common with new couples. A way to show other males and females the claim on one another has been staked.

She must request an audience with their elders, leaving us to blend in until she returns.

We’re led into a cave that runs long and wide. Stone teeth like hanging icicles at its opening, and a mouth that glows from the fireplace and candlelit iron chandeliers. The air is clouded with a thin fog and the distinct scent of leather, liquor, and cigar smoke.

The tavern is as wild as a pack of hyenas.

Passing the threshold is emerging into a dark circus. A chilling fantasy of dark elf descendants in their habitat. Gambling, drinking, and erotic displays of affection. From a touch of violin and the low staccato of a piano, music combined with boisterous noises of clanking silverware and shrill shrieks of pleasure.

I’ve never seen anything like this before.

Clusters of tangled limbs, arched backs, and flesh glistening with sweat. Laughing women, intoxicated men, greedy hands, and lurkers who watch from the shadows.

My innocence is clipped like the wings of a bird as I watch the lust roll from their careless fun. Dessin stiffens at my side.

The women are dressed like Runa. Black, lacy undergarments and knee-high boots. Some are in the laps of their chosen, others are splayed on the tabletops, hair soaking in the puddles of spilled drinks. A few men pin their eager victims against the cave walls, cupping their breasts and tasting their necks, chests, and other parts with feral hunger.

What have I gotten myself into?

“Find a table. I’ll get you drinks,” Runa purrs to Dessin, disappearing into the dimly lit cave of moans and laughter.

We stand there in silence, in shock, in debilitating stillness.

I overshot. This is so much worse than I imagined.

“Fuck.” Never in my life have I dared to utter a curse word. But it slips out, leaking from my lips like a string of drool. I said it under my breath, too quiet to be heard by the crowd.

But Dessin whips his head to me. And although the cloak shields his eyes with a heavy pour of shadow, I see his mouth part.

“Excuse me?” he says in shocked amusement. “Skylenna”—he chokes on a laugh—“did you just curse?”

I cringe. My father hated curse words. I’ve never even had the urge to recite one. How does this view provoke such profanity but the asylum doesn’t?

His chest rumbles with unexpected laughter.

“Don’t get used to it.” I poke him with my elbow. “Let’s sit down before I lose my nerve.”

My legs move quickly through the tables, failing to avoid being bumped and caressed. I drop down to a wooden bench connected to a heavy oak table. My heart gallops in my chest, stuttering, palpitating, causing my breath to be choppy and uneven.

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