Page 35 of Little Puppet

He cuts into his chicken with precision, which I’m in awe and a little afraid of. “No. But my adoptive father was adamant I become something that allowed me the life I deserved. He always said I went through the rough times in my childhood, and I should strive to live a colorful and vibrant life beyond it.”

For a moment, I forget I’m sitting beside a murderer and nod in agreement as if we’re two old friends sitting down to a meal together to catch up.

Then I grab my wine, and my piercings sting as my strings pull too tight, and I’m reminded of who I am to this man.

His prey.

I’m in a constant war with myself and my thoughts.Don’t even get me started on the way he makes me feel sexually. I’m certain I’ve crossed some line of mortality God set in the sand millions of years ago. At least twice.

“That’s a nice way of putting it, though,” I answer, trying to stay out of my head and all its drama.

Part of me wants to be present for my last days on earth. Live it to the fullest.

I finish my wine, feeling the buzz beneath my skin as I ask for another glass. He fills it halfway once more.

“Last glass, puppet. I don’t want you hurting yourself on your strings if you get too drunk.”

I nod, licking my lips as I put them to the rim of the wineglass again, looking at him through the glass as I tip it.

I can’t help how he makes me feel, and I’m honestly sick of fighting it, but my brain won’t let me forget who he is and how I got here.

Not even if I tried.

We discussed a few more things, like where I live and where I go to school. He tells me where he went to school and about the first girl he kidnapped.

Once the meal is cleaned off the table and I’m thoroughly buzzed, he tells me he’ll clean the kitchen and helps me to the room.

When he walks back to the kitchen, I have the distinct feeling I was just on a date with a serial killer, even though that wasn’t the intent I set out with when I decided to cook.

I shake away from the thought, flick the lights off, and get into bed.

As I sink into the mattress, I try to conjure dreams that keep me company as I rest—made-up scenarios full of happiness and cheer.

But all my brain chooses to do is remember his fist grinding against my inner walls, waking me a few times as my core throbs and my body writhes of its own volition.

Heat is what wakes me.

It’s so hot.

I try to toss the covers off and find they won’t move.

I whimper, rolling over, well, trying to. There’s a wall behind me.

Cain snores, and I realize he’s in bed with me. Not only that but his leg and arm are thrown over me lazily as he sleeps.

He’s cuddling me.

What the fuck?

If I’m honest, his identity directly contrasts what’s happening and makes it scarier.

I’m in the arms of a man who murders women for no other reason than he hates Christmas because of what happened to him as a boy and part of me wants to snuggle back into him and go back to sleep.

I need to get the fuck away from him.

But even though I think that and know that, my heady eyes close again.

Until he moves.

---