Page 8 of The Puppetmaster

“There he is,” Melina’s voice cuts into my pondering.

In spite of myself, I turn around instantly searching for proof, my eyelashes fluttering nervously as my heart pounds with excitement. The venue is rather crowded, pretty girls in racy dresses and alluring lingerie left and right. A few of them are in the company of a man, because only select couples are allowed to witness a hunt.

This night is not about them. It’s all abouthim, the tall, broad-shouldered man in an expensively tailored black suit who now weaves his way through the room as if he owns it. And I guess, in a way, he does.

A neatly trimmed and very short beard covers his strong jawline and upper lip, changing his look from how I remember it. He doesn’t look older, but he looks wiser and daunting in a way that makes my breath speed out of control. Even from afar I can feel his domineering presence, and the strength and power he emits just by walking through the room at an unnaturally slow pace. His skin is tan, always looking as if he’s been kissed by the sun, but it’s a warmth that’s natural to him.

He’s even taller than I remembered, even more intimidating, and so handsome that my breath literally stops when he turns in my direction and my eyes meet the black depth of his.

It gets only worse when he pauses.

He freezes mid-motion… and looks straight at me.

Chapter 5

Raad

I’m acting against my better judgment when I walk up to her. This was not what I had planned, and even when I come to a halt right next to her, I’m still doubting my decision. But it’s too late now. There was no going back once our eyes locked.

Besides, it’s probably best to get this out of the way as quickly as possible.

I tower over her, standing while she stays seated on the high chair, her head tilted back as her cool eyes remain fixated on mine. Even in the dim light I can see the scar on her left temple. It never vanished completely, leaving a faint, zig-zag-shaped canyon right next to her eye all the way to her hairline. It’s barely visible under all the makeup, but I can spot it easily.

Because I know it’s there.

Alena is one of the very few aspirants tonight who are not dressed in black. Black lingerie and revealing dresses are the usual go-to for any girl in here who wants to signal her interest in play. It stems from the club’s early beginnings, when the only women allowed in were the hostesses hired to entertain the guests—angels dressed in white and devils dressed in black. Only the devils were allowed to accompany a man up to the play rooms on the second level, and even though these proceedings are no longer part of The Velvet Rooms’ regular business, it has become an unspoken rule that black means business.

However, Alena’s perfect curves are adorned with white lace, matching the wristband on her right arm—and tonight white tells a different story. I chose deliberately when I decided white wristbands would signify a girl’s interest in becoming my next puppet, and it has very little to do with a foolish longing for innocence.

White has always drawn my eye more than any other color. It could just be a personal preference, as I’ve gotten bored by the usual darkness assigned to kink. Black and red seem to dominate the scene wherever you go, and The Velvet Rooms are no different.

This makes a girl in white stand out all the more. And I don’t know whether to be impressed or irritated by the fact that of all girls here Alena is the one who uses this to her advantage.

Our eyes are still locked on one another as if in a silent staring contest, and I’m sure we’re being watched by half the room. I’m used to it, as every hunt comes with an audience, and the curiosity has only grown the longer I’ve been doing this.

“Come with me,” I say in a voice that allows no objections.

I notice the barmaid shifting awkwardly before she turns her back to us, averting her gaze just as I wish everyone else in here would. Normally I’m not bothered by their attention; on the contrary, there’s a reason why I conduct my search on a public stage. I seek the attention, the adoration, and the respect that comes with it.

But right now I’m overcome with desire to have Alena all to myself, even if it’s just for a few moments. I want to call her out, I want to scold her for being such a bad girl, for breaking the rules before she even became mine.

And I will.

She nods and inflames a new surge of heat when she whispers, “Yes, sir,” as she slides down from her high chair. Too easy, too obedient.

Fuck. Don’t be like that, Alena. Don’t disappoint me.

I refrain from touching her as I guide her toward the separated area in the far back of the main room, the tips of my fingers hovering over the small of her back, less than an inch shy of contacting her skin as I make her walk in front of me.

She knows where we’re headed and doesn’t need me to lead the way, and everyone knows that I prefer to have my subjects in clear sight at every moment. I watch her hips sway before my eyes, her delicate hands moving somewhat awkwardly next to her as she slowly makes her way toward the red velvet rope. She’s not wearing a thong but instead racy panties crested with elaborate lace designs that curl across her tight butt cheeks. She’s more athletic than I remember, and the way her muscles tighten as she walks turns me on to no end. I’m rock-hard by the time we reach the velvet rope—and it annoys the hell out of me.

She stops and waits for me to unfasten the rope. I’m the only one allowed to do this, and her compliant behavior shows that she’s aware of that rule.

“Far back, the red armchair,” I tell her, gesturing toward an upholstered button-tufted chair that is a little hidden in the shadows.

She swallows dryly and follows my gesture, her hands clasped in front of her as she slowly walks toward the chair as I refasten the velvet rope behind us.

Opposite of the red chair is another of the same kind, but this one is covered in black velvet instead of red. A small table is placed between the chairs, on top of which is a small carafe filled to the brim with iced water and two glasses.

---