Page 27 of His Puppet

10

Emily

One week later

“Is this blindfold really necessary?” I ask, itching to swipe the black cloth off my head. It would almost be better if they’d bound my hands so the temptation wouldn’t be there.

Neither of the men in the black SUV respond, as expected.

Tattoo, the name I’ve given to the guy who came in and out of the ten by twelve prison/bedroom for the past week, is driving. The other two, I don’t recognize. I’m guessing they’ve been two of the many voices I’ve listened to while laying, day in and day out, in a musty bed healing. Their muffled voices, coupled with loud footsteps, filtered up the stairs and underneath the door, and focusing on it has been the highlight of my time spent in that room. Needless to say, this unexpected car ride is fucking thrilling.

Tattoo, a large hairy man covered in—you guessed it—tattoos, has been the only person I’ve seen. He came in every day to apply medicine to my burned, blistered skin as well as to change the dressing on my feet. He brought me food and carried me to the bathroom when I needed,notgiving me a scrap of privacy, by the way. Me and Tattoo, we’re best buds by this point, despite him refusing to give me his name or have any level of conversation with me.

Even Blade hasn’t come to see me.

I feel myself blush when his image comes into my mind. The last memory I have before waking up in that room is Blade lifting me into his arms and carrying me to a car. There was music. The drive was bumpy. That’s pretty much all that sticks in my memory, and I’m still not sure if it was real.

I have no idea if he’s pissed at me or if I badly injured him, and I’m clueless about what he has planned for me. My guess is the whore house, which if I’m honest, as long as it gets me out of that room and in the company of living, breathing,speakinghuman beings, I’ll take it and figure out my next move there. I’m at least pretty sure he isn’t going to kill me judging by how diligent Tattoo has been about taking care of my physical state.

“Just so you know,” I clear my throat to mask my anxiety. “Your boss probably would have wanted you to cuff me or something. You’d think you people would have learned that lesson.”

“No worries,” a voice sounds from the passenger seat. He has an accent. New York, maybe. “We’ve been given strict orders to shoot you if you try anything. You’re good at running, princess, not at dodging bullets.”

I stiffen and wring my hands in my lap. I turn my head to face the window even though I can’t see anything. I wasn’t expecting an answer, and I’m not a fan of the one I got.

“Well played,” I mutter, just so he doesn’t think I’m scared.

“Besides, Mr. Bianchi is your boss too, babygirl. From here on out, you’re the one who pays for acting up. We’re just delivery drivers.”

“That’s enough,” Tattoo growls. The other man doesn’t say anything else.

“Mr. Bianchi?” I ask, my brows pinching. “Is that Blade? What are you talking about?”

When neither answer, my teeth sink into my lip, and I focus on my breathing.

This is good news. If Blade is Mr. Bianchi, I’m not going to a whore house, I’m going somewhere else, todosomething else. I’d feel a lot better if I knew where and what.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, and of course, get no response. “Seriously, just tell me what’s up. I won’t tattle on you.”

Mr. New York Accent snickers, and I throw my head back against the seat and slouch. I fucking hate these guys and their mind games.

The SUV slows not a minute later, the tires crunching as the vehicle turns. The SUV slows to a stop, and the chatterbox leans into the backseat and rips the blindfold over my eyes as Tattoo puts the car in park.

I meet the man’s cold and unfeeling eyes, his amusement from a minute ago a distant memory.

“Go,” he says, nodding toward my door.

I turn my head to peer out the window at the silver Nissan parked next to us. The windows are too tinted for me to see who, if anyone, is inside, but the engine is running.

“Where am I going, exactly?” I ask, not peeling my eyes from the car.

“Get out of the fucking car, Emily, before Mr. Bianchi blames us for making him wait.”

Emily. They know my name. Of course they do, but it’s the first time I’ve been called that since Blade, and before that, I hadn’t been called that in five years. It sounds wrong on this guy’s lips, and my shoulders hunch with fear, as if just uttering my name will givehimmy location.

I open the car door and hop out before Mr. New York Accent can yell at me again. I hesitate before taking the two steps to the Nissan and opening the door.

I climb inside and face Blade, who stares down at a phone and doesn’t seem aware that I just got into his car.

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