Page 53 of The Puppetmaster

It strikes me as a fucking quirk of fate that of all my puppets, she would be the one who’d give me extra trouble on more than one account. Just as there was another quirk of fate that I had made my peace with: the fact that she had shown up for a hunt sooner than I had intended but that it could actually work to my advantage—meaning that I could bring my plan to an end sooner than expected. I’m running out of time, and if I want to get this done, it would have to happen sooner rather than later. There’s too much at stake to treat this as a second order of business.

Grinding my teeth, I shove the folder with Alena’s papers back into the safe and march out of the room.

I’m almost tempted to contact my black sheep brother about this, because I know he’s more familiar with committing fraud than I am, but deep down I know that it would be a stupid thing to do. We have enough skeletons in our closets and I’m already moving in a gray area with all of this to say the least. I have no intention of adding fraud to the list already adorning my résumé.

I will have to find a way to get Alena to do this for me without her knowing what she’s doing. It will be tough, but not impossible.

Nothing is impossible.

I walk up to her room knowing she’ll be waiting for me to get her, just like every morning. She has turned into a surprisingly compliant little puppet ever since that tantalizing first day. The day that bonded us together more closely than I have ever been with any puppet before.

My eyes narrow just like the clamp that seems to tighten around my chest when I catch myself contemplating that thought.

She may be special, but she’s still nothing but a puppet. I will cut her strings just like I have cut them for everyone else. She will cry and beg me to keep her, just like all of them have done before, but I will still do it because I know I have to.

I know she hears my steps approaching long before I open the door. Usually I find her greeting me with an expectant smile on her face, either kneeling on the floor or sitting on the bed with her legs dangling over the edge.

Today, though, she’s standing by the window, turning around on the spot when I step inside the room, a surprised look on her face as if she’s seeing me for the very first time. She looks as angelic as always, dressed lightly in a cream-colored ensemble, a sexy little thong with matching bra and stockings, no garter belt, but a see-through kimono that stops at her knees and reveals more than it hides.

“Good morning, puppet,” I say, my voice dark and guarded.

She smiles at me, but it’s not genuine. There’s a shadow cast across her expression. She’s hiding something.

“Good morning, Master,” she pipes in response, her voice a bit too high.

She walks toward me with her hands stretched out in front of her, just like I taught her to. Our days never quite look the same, but they all have one thing in common: we don’t start before I’m holding the strings attached to her cuffs.

I’m no longer using the jute rope from day one. I have upgraded her to the proper leather strings that connect with a small metallic clip and are more durable and resilient than the rope. I learned on the first day that she will need more than the simple rope to keep her in place. I haven’t spanked her since that day, but the colors my punishment left on her behind are just beginning to fade.

The sight of it fills me with pride, and I make a mental note to fuck her from behind one more time today before the marks are gone for good.

If I’m lucky, she’ll give me a reason to leave new ones.

“Something on your mind?” I ask as I attach the string to her cuffs.

She looks up at me but I don’t react to her expression, avoiding eye contact with her on purpose.

“Why are you asking?”

Oh, how I hate that fucking question.

I close the second clip and yank at her strings, beckoning her to follow me downstairs.

“Is there?” I growl as I pull her harshly along the corridor.

I can hear her padding behind me, almost stumbling over her own feet to keep up with me.

“No,” she insists as we walk down the stairs. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m n—”

“Shut up, Alena, I know something is bothering you. But if you don’t want to tell me, fine,” I interrupt her, adding another strong yank as we reach the kitchen, causing her to stumble next to me.

We’re standing next to the counter that separates the open kitchen from the dining area where we usually have our breakfast together.

Not today, though.

---