Page 42 of The Puppet Master
Without a second’s pause, the belt whistles through the air. It lands with acrack, searing flesh mercifully covered by denim and cashmere. I’m surprised no one insists she remove her clothes.Ialmost insist, even as I squirm.
Submission doesn’t come without pain.
The belt slaps seven times before I realize I’m counting.
Deep breath. Square shoulders. Switch to counting seconds, teeth tapping in rhythm.
At twenty, the whipping stops.
I break from the painting just as Thorne straightens, belt slipping from his hand. The thump it makes punctuates the stillness in the room. The sound mingles with Luna’s whimpering—no doubt real.
Thorne’s murderous eyes find me before he turns and storms from the room. The others follow one-by-one until Luna and I are alone.
Her face remains hidden in her arms as I walk to her. She’s a crumpled mess—leg bloodied from the spring trap, a red welt peeking where her sweater’s ridden up.
She needs a bath. Food. Rest. Maybe even space.
If this were my island, I’d give her all of it. Comfort is what makes the growing pains bearable—for them, and for me.
But three weeks is so little time. And we haven’t even started.
I bend to scoop her rigid body into my arms and carry her from Aurelius’s home, the special room my destination.
CHAPTER 11
LUNA
Itrace a thin crack in the ceiling as Sawyer tends to the wounds on my calf and shin. Eight punctures—bloody and tender—one for each tooth of the spring trap.
It looks nasty now, but my skin doesn’t easily scar, and this isn’t the first trap I’ve run into. The ceiling slowly fades as I’m taken back to ten years old. The butt of a rifle presses to my shoulder while I creep along a set of hooved tracks. I’m so focused, I don’t notice the metal jaws until they sink into my leg, and I scream so loud I spook every deer within two hundred yards. Somehow, I’m only half as loud as my father.
“You’re gonna be all right, Luna,” Sawyer says. I shut my eyes against the softness in his voice. It’s a lie crueler than the words themselves. Exactly what you’d expect from a world-class trafficker.
“I read about you in the Times.” I say, stilling the cotton in his hand. “Sawyer Hansley. Owner of Paradise Island.”
Seconds pass without movement. I open my eyes to find Sawyer watching me, his eyes slightly narrowed with a question I hear as clearly as if he spoke it.How do you know?
“The bearded guy said your name.”
Eyes closing, he sighs. But only a few moments pass before he goes back to applying a greasy salve to my gash, the scent of lavender and pine needles fighting against dusty, stale air.
“It’s probably better that you know.” He picks up a large bandage and peels off the back. I wait for him to say something else, something to explain himself, but… Silence.
He wraps the cloth around the wound.
“You’re a monster.” I rise up on my hands, heels of my palms digging into the black cushioned bench he chose to lay me. “You wanted me to believe you were a victim of this place, but you’re probably their leader.”
“Theirleader?” Sawyer laughs without a trace of humor. “I don’t know if you noticed, but they forced me from those woods same as you. And if I hadn’t convinced them that your little escape attempt was according to plan, we’d both be dead. So you're welcome.”
My lips part, air bursting past. “For what? Saving yourself?”
When he goes to put another bandage on my leg, I yank away. “Don’tfuckingtouch me.”
My voice hits an octave too high—feminine, shrill,weak. It echoes off the walls and ricochets inside my skull.
Father’s voice.
Don’t be dramatic.
