Page 44 of The Puppetmaster

For fuck’s sake, not this again.

Rolling my eyes, I turn around to find the goddamn cat meandering toward us, its tail wavering with elegant disdain as it approaches Alena while completely ignoring my existence. Much to my surprise, it doesn’t stop about two feet away from Alena and sit down, judging her, like it usually would. Instead, the cat nestles between her legs and even accepts being petted by Alena, who is just about to pick the damn thing up when I stop her.

“Not now,” I bark at her, causing her to freeze mid-motion and turn to me, pouting.

“Is it a boy or girl?” she asks behind me as we continue our way up the stairs.

My first instinct is to say that I don’t know, because I truly don’t care. But then I remember Dorota referring to the animal as “she”, so I opt for the honest response.

“A girl, I think.”

“What’s her name?”

“Cat.”

We reach the second floor and I can feel Alena’s eyes piercing through my back as she walks behind me.

“Cat?” she responds. “Are you kidding me? She doesn’t have a name?”

I want to ignore her questions, or spank her for being so goddamn sassy with me. But when I turn around I’m stopped by something that has never happened before: the cat has followed us upstairs. It’s still glued to Alena, who appears to be oblivious to its presence, even though the cat is literally five inches behind her, its blue eyes journeying back and forth between me and Alena.

What is wrong with this animal? It can’t possibly be this needy after Dorota has only been gone for a day. Besides, it’s never acted like this before, especially with the girls.

“What’s wrong?” Alena asks, before she reacts in surprise as the cat decides to snuggle up to her again.

Yanking at the strings, my little puppet giggles as her eyes focus in on the white fluffy creature at her feet, while I watch the scene in disbelief.

Chapter 28

Alena

I’m not surprised, but my heart stills sinks when he shuts the cat out as he leads me to the room where I will be sleeping. He’s very adamant about it, too, closing the door with such a swift, brutal motion that I almost worry about it hitting the cat right in the face as it tries to follow us.

His expression is stern again, just as it has been ever since he fucked me. He insists that I did nothing wrong, yet I can’t help but wonder. One moment he tries to kiss my tears away and passionately claims me in a way that made me forget all other men I’ve ever been with—and the next moment he looks at me as if I were the devil himself.

What is going on with him? Is that how he is with every puppet? Is it part of his game?

Did I overdo it? I can’t help but be the person I am, and I go for the things I want. I tease, I pull, I test. I can’t help it, despite having no intentions of being a brat in any way.

If I want something, I need to take it. But did I take too much from him? Does he regret his decision to take me in already?

Never knowing what his current mood is like certainly keeps me on my toes, but I’m not sure whether I like it.

However, I know I like him. I’m trying to remind myself that it was just sex, that he’s notorious for turning women’s heads, and the fact that it was as good as it was doesn’t say anything about the way he feels about me.

Still. Sex has never been like that for me. Passionate, intimate, so fiery hot that I can still feel him all over my body. This is more than just chemistry—even though it can’t possibly be.

“This will be your room,” he announces as he steps forward, still holding the strings in his hands and pulling me with him as he walks toward the massive canopy bed standing against the wall to our right. The room itself is gigantic, in bright white, a soft white carpet beneath my feet, snow-white walls, and the same sheer white curtains framing floor-length windows as I saw downstairs. The bedding is white too, but the sheets are covered with thin black lines painting an irregular pattern across the blanket and some of the pillows.

Just like strings.

Opposite of the bed is a big dresser, also white, though more of a cream-white color, slightly darker than the walls and the carpet. And next to it I find my little suitcase on the floor.

Above the dresser hangs a large canvas, the only piece of art in this room. It’s a painting, most likely oil on canvas, depicting a desert landscape. I step closer, entranced by the vivid colors that stand out against all the white in this room, and when I come to a halt in front of it, I notice the faint outline of pyramids in the background.

“Is that... Egypt?” I ask.

“The Giza Pyramid Complex from afar,” he explains.

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