Page 87 of The Puppet Master
The days he chose to fuck me were always the gentlest on my body. He conditioned me to want it in only a little over a week.
As a human trafficker, he’s good. As a person, he’s awful.
“I’m so sorry he’s cruel to you,” Thorne says, his voice a heavy blanket of remorse.
I close my eyes and set my soup on the floor—appetite spoiled.
Thorne clears his throat, his hand to his chest while he hacks up emotion. “Aurelius asked me to bring this.” He pulls a new camcorder out of his jacket pocket and rests it in his lap. His head hangs, chocolate eyes peering at me beneath long lashes.
I don’t know what to say to him. My lungs feel heavy with a scream that isn’t fair—even if he’s looking at me like I’m a dog about to be put down.
It’s Sawyer's fault that I’m angry.
That I’m hungry.
That I’m pathetic.
Thorne looks down while fumbling the camcorder in his hands. A vein pops on his forehead when he clenches the device, and I watch unflinchingly as he pushes to his feet and slams the camcorder to the ground. He stomps on it with his big, heavy boots until it comes apart in pieces, the broken glass of the lens sliding my way.
I pick it up and trace the jagged crack of glass before letting it clank at my feet. Pins prick the back of my eyes, pulling my lids closed.
When was the last time I cried?
“Thank you,” I say, clearing my throat when my voice comes out hoarse. I don’t tell him that training is over and his dramatics are unnecessary. For once in my life, I want the drama.
I open my mouth to say more, but before anything can come out, the front door creaks. Bangs shut.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. This time, the gait is unquestionably Sawyer’s. I look out the window as if I’ll see stars, but the sun hasn’t even begun to set.
Thorne and I watch the door as Sawyer shoves inside, his hands digging in his bulging hoodie pocket for a plastic bag reeking of grease. When he raises his head and sees Thorne, he drops it. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Thorne answers with the stretch of his spine. His jaw tenses, his fingers half-curled—not quite into fists.
As Sawyer’s widening eyes roam the cut on my arm, I twitch to cover myself. But don’t.
“Did you fuckinghurther?” He swings in front of me like I might get snatched by the supposed vulture that is Thorne.
Becausenowhe’s protective.
After days spent ignoring me,now, he cares.
“DidIhurt her?” Thorne stomps Sawyer’s way. “It’s seven, and according to Brex, you left early this morning. She hasn’t eaten a thing today.” He stabs a finger at the bowl of soup. “Forgive me for not letting herstarve.”
Sawyer scoffs, but Thorne isn’t finished. He towers over Sawyer, steaming like a volcano, a hair-trigger from eruption. His fists fully close. “None of us were sure you’d even be back.”
Thorne shoves Sawyer’s chest and makes him stumble backward onto me. I flinch against his freezing palm on my thigh. His hand squeezes the slightest bit as he peers back to make sure I’m okay.
A half look. For half a second.
It shouldn’t bring me relief.
“Where did you go,Hansley?” Thorne sneers, Sawyer’s last name somehow an insult.
Sawyer rights himself then shoves back at Thorne’s chest, but of course, the lunk doesn’t budge. “I’m not going to discuss my work with you here. Or anywhere, for that matter. I won’t tellyou how to follow the yellow brick road if you don’t tell me how to do my job. Okay, Scarecrow?”
Thorne’s lips fumble as confusion makes his angry face twitch. A robot malfunctioning.
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand half of what you say.”
