Page 9 of Little Puppet

I was too caught up in fixing her once I got a good look at her.

I’ve had to start over before when a victim got themselves hurt in the chase back to the house, and I could have last night, too. Something about Grace, however, had me delving into my daytime professional knowledge to piece her back together without a second thought.

I need her whole if I’m going to play with her.

That thought reminds me I haven’t fed her, and I groan as I shove the phone in her purse and make my way back to the house.

She’s right where I left her on the bed when I bring her a sandwich and water.

Her hazel eyes track my every move, trying to see through my mask every chance she gets.

It wouldn’t hurt for her to see my face, not when she’ll end up dead just like the others, but something is unsettling about her. So, I listen to my gut and keep the mask firmly over my face.

“I need you to eat,” I tell her, and she eyes me warily.

“You’re trying to keep me alive?” she asks, snagging the sandwich from me and taking a tentative bite.

Her pupils dilate as she realizes how hungry she is and takes another. My veins burn with an ache I’ve never felt before, and my hands flex as I watch her swallow the food down.

“How will you be my perfect puppet if you’re dead?” I ask her, batting the ball back into her court.

She licks her lips, taking another big bite of the peanut butter and jelly, chewing longer than is necessaryas she keeps her mouth busy enough to think her words over before she says them.

“If I’m your good girl, I get to go home?” she asks.

The way she said thegood girlhas my skin on fire, and I can’t ignore the painful erection in my jeans much longer if I’m going to keep my sanity in hand.

The idea of letting her go is abhorrent, but I need her to have a goal to work towards, or this won’t work.

I’ve learned that the hard way, too.

I nod. “Yes.”

Her breathing speeds as she finishes her sandwich. I hand her the glass of water, and she gulps it down.

“Will you tell me the rules?”

I narrow my gaze at her. She’s too perfect, and I know she’s trying to play me to survive. Half of me gets angry at the thought, but I need to remain level-headed, so I brush the anger under the proverbial mat and sit taller on the edge of the bed.

“You will do as you’re told and never sass back. You have free rein of the house, as your strings are connected to a series of tracks that’ll allow you to go wherever you want to, but you’ll stay out of the last door on the right upstairs. You won’t harm yourself or remove your hoops from your flesh, and you will never try to run from me.”

She takes it all in, weighing out what she thinks she can handle. The cogs in her eyes turn as she thinks deeply.

“You’ve done this before.” It’s not a question. It’s an observation.

I nod. “I have.”

“How many survived?” she asks, her voice growing meek.

“None.”

She tugs her knees into her chest as sadness veils the strength I’d watched growing in her over the last few minutes.

I usually like sadness and fear, but I find it appalling on her.

I push the stupidity away, however, and keep myself even keel.

“Now, are you ready for your first task?” I ask her, excitement winding through me as I clean up her plate and cup and head for the kitchen.

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