Page 1 of The Puppetmaster

Prolog

Raad

She cowers on her knees in front of me like many have before—her ocean-colored eyes drenched in tears, her cheeks flushed with desire, and her body trembling with anticipation.

I’ll never get tired of this sight.

No one makes my puppets dance as beautifully as I do.

No one earns their committed faith like I do.

No one gets to see that dazzling spark in their eyes, that hot little flare that tells me more than they will ever know.

It’s evidence of my victory—and their ruin.

I have yet to see that fateful flicker in her eyes.

Alena heard the rumors about me. She came here to change her life.

A life that was marked by struggle, resistance, and frustration—a constant fight.

The ongoing strain hardened my little puppet. It made her curl up inside an impenetrable shell. And now she wants me to break that shell.

She thinks she knows what she’s asking for. She thinks my handling will set her free, regardless of the strings attached to cuffs around her wrist.

Alena is strong, unyielding, and a captive of her own mind.

But she’s starting to falter.

She told me she’d never waver, never succumb to a man like me.

Just like I told her that she should never mistake my attention for love. Never.

Yet, here we are.

A Master and his devoted puppet.

Caught in a dance that neither one of us wants to end.

Chapter 1

Alena

My boss's stubby fingers rest heavily on my thigh and it's hard not to shudder with disgust.

Mr. Hammond is a thick-set man, his musty suit jacket stretched by a massive spare tire and his greasy hair combed to the side in a futile attempt to cover his balding top. He casts me a patronizing smile, revealing a row of yellow teeth as he speaks.

“Alena, dear,” he says, humiliating me further by adding a condescending chuckle. “Let's stop here. Your ideas are all very nice and… cute. But we don't want to get ahead of ourselves, don't we?”

I suck in a sharp breath of air, my fists clenching as my eyes trail to his fat hand on my thigh. Why does he think it's okay to touch me there?

If you don't stop touching me right this second, I'm going to take that fucking hand and pin it to the table with a pen.

The image is scarily clear inside my head as I imagine driving my fountain pen right through the back of his hand, watching the spotted skin break as the dark ink mixes with the blood gushing out. I imagine the blend of blood and ink soaking the conference table, while his agonizing screams resonate through the room and my horrified coworkers jump up and run around like headless chickens.

Mr. Hammond notices my look, but doesn't withdraw his hand until I beckon him to do so by squirming myself out of his touch as gracefully as possible.

His dull eyes wander around the large table, aimlessly searching for signs of approval among his dutiful minions. My department is small, only seventeen people and nearly all of them are gathered in here, seated around a lumbering table that could hold almost twice that number of attendees. This whole meeting room speaks of Mr. Hammond’s megalomania with its excessive size, the panoramic windows, and designer furniture that starkly contrasts the low-budget chairs and desks equipping our offices.

---