Page 45 of The Puppet Master
Sawyer slides open a shallow drawer and lifts something out—pecan-shell sized, white, nameless. He pockets it without a word, then reaches into a lower drawer to retrieve a coil of strange, cherry-red rope.
There’s a camera on a tripod that Sawyer turns on, the ominous red light cutting like a laser. I stare wide-eyed into the lens as Sawyer comes toward me. “You’refilmingthis?”
“We want our new friends to see your progress… Keep your hands at your sides.”
The words, “go to hell,” almost jump from my throat, but fear holds them back.Realfear.Genuinefear. More than I know how to feel.
What happens next?
I try to think it through,analyze,plan—but that only works when you know your opponent. The man who saved me in the woods is gone. This is a new Sawyer entirely.
He crouches in front of me and positions my palms flat on my hips, then wraps the rope around my belly several times to lock my arms.
“Hold still, honey,” he says, popping the button on my jeans. If I could spit without strangling myself, I would, just for the crime of that one word.Honey. Spoken as if I’mpitiful; a scared little girl who needs his mercy, hisguidance.
I’m not much for cursing, but…
Fuck. Him.
Long, skilled fingers tuck inside the waistband of my jeans before gently tugging downward. So careful, it’s as if Sawyer is still trying to convince me we’re on the same team. Because not only am I a pitiful girl in his eyes—I’mstupidtoo.
The denim drags over the swollen flesh of my backside, the fresh sting a harsh reminder of earlier.
The slap of the belt.
The humiliation.
Thorne’s wounded expression.
“Very still,” Sawyer reminds me as he carefully peels my pants to my ankles. With a light grasp, he lifts one foot to slide off the material, then repeats with the other.
“You’re sick,” I sneer, throat pulsing against polyester.
His neutral expression doesn’t change. Not even a flicker of anger.
He tosses my pants to the side then crooks his index fingers beneath the cotton of my panties. The touch is so light it’s somehow sharper, like the tip of a blade tickling a throat. My belly sucks in as I clench.
“What did you do when they shut down your island?” I try to sneer past the blood whooshing through my ears. My voice wobbles, vocal cords hitching at the gentle tug of my panties. “You just Googled fucked-up cults with sex slaves?”
No answer. All his concentration stays on the slow descent of my panties.
He’s really not going to loosen the belt.
Once the thin material is tossed to the side with my pants, he grasps both of my ankles and pulls. Lightly. Pointedly. Leaving no question of what he wants.
I don’t budge.
Sawyer’s head tips back as he looks up at me, expression unreadable. His lids stay soft, his eyelids relaxed, skin smooth, not a crease in sight. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t evenspeak, and somehow, someway, it’s all the more threatening.
Staring straight ahead, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and inch my legs apart.
“How did you even get the money to buy the island?” I ask—half growl, half squeak. “Did you traffic women before that? Or was it Daddy’s trust fund that funded your fucked up fantasies?”
Sawyer chuckles—quiet, dangerous, scary.
Two fingers slide between my lower lips. My gasp comes so quick, it whistles.
I clamp my mouth shut, clench my eyes, regret it in an instant because it only makes the feel of Sawyer fingers more intense as he spreads me open.
