Page 25 of His Puppet

“Can you stand?” Blade—imaginary or real, I’m still not sure—asks.

I still don’t respond, and he waits a few seconds before bending and shifting his hands underneath me. His touch feels real. Calloused hands grip my legs and side to hoist me up. He carries me to the black Jag we rode to the barn in before opening the back door and laying me across the seats. Red Hot Chili Peppers sing Californication through the stereo as cold air blasts, the temperature difference so alarming I shiver.

Blade gets into the driver’s seat and turns the car around, kicking up dirt and gravel.

He drives in the opposite direction he came, and I stay perfectly still. I close my eyes and listen to the song, singing the lyrics in my head.

Blade

Emily drinks greedilyfrom the bottle I hold to her lips. Water sloshes to the ground, and she moans with her eyes shut.

Her skin is fried, and her feet are going to take weeks to heal completely. She’s reached delirium, which by itself, is pretty adorable. Since I got her back to the house, she’s been muttering nonsense through cracked lips and clinging to me.

I almost wish I hadn’t let her go so far. Our sensors suggested a long sprint through the fields and several miles into the desert before she veered toward the road. Then she trekked nineteen miles down the lone road to the highway. It was dusk before I picked her up.

And now I’ll have to let her heal. It could take days or a week before she’s ready for the job I have for her.

Still, it was fascinating to see just how tough this woman is.

When Emily chokes, I pull her third bottle of water away to set it on the bathroom floor. She groans and tries to go for it, but I hold her back and she rests her head on my shoulder instead.

“Are you ready to take a bath?” I ask.

She doesn’t reply, but I didn’t expect her to. She whines when I pick her up and gently set her in the water. Her body tenses, and her eyes snap open. She grabs my wrists and gasps.

“Too cold?” I ask.

She nods profusely.

“It’ll be good for your skin. Maybe it’ll help wake you up a bit too.”

Emily cries and shakes her head. “Cold.” She tries to climb out of the tub, but she’s too weak, the attempt making her look pathetic.

I grab her shoulders and gently press her against the tub. “Calm down, Emily. You’re okay.”

She whines but doesn’t fight. I peel off her wet, dirty clothes, and toss them into a heap on the floor, then I turn back to the brown-tinged water and sigh. I might as well be bathing her in mud.

I pull the stop to drain the dirt, then fill the tub back up with lukewarm water this time. Emily’s eyes are closed, and her head is turned. Her breaths come out heavy like she’s asleep. I dip a cloth in water and lather it up with soap before smoothing it over her burnt legs.

“I didn’t mean it,” she says, her voice cracking. “I wanna be a good girl.”

My hand pauses, and I look at Emily’s face with a brow raised. Her eyes are still closed, and she speaks on a breath of air.

“Do you forgive me?”

“For the ankle? Sure.”

“Please, Daddy?”

What the fuck?

“I wanna be a good girl. Please don’t put me in the box again.” Emily starts crying, and she brings her hands to her chest. “I’m sorry.”

“You mean the bunker? I’m not—”

“No, no, no.” She thrashes her head and starts digging her torn feet into the tub to try to get out again. She’s frantic, and I grab her to hold her still, but she keeps shaking her head and crying.

“I don’t wanna go in the box again!”

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