The Master and The Marionette (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 2)

Kane has left me. Gone. Vanished. A memory acting as my only comfort in the presence of this—stranger.

I have met a third alter.

Greystone.

But Dessin always made me believe there were only two. Is it even possible to have multiple personalities living in one mind? I have more questions than ever.

Greystone cocks his head, waiting for me to respond to the bomb he’s just dropped.

“Dessin didn’t tell me there were more,” I say out of breath, taking a step back until I hit the wooden panel of the tree house doorway.

He licks his lips, smiling down at me as though I’m a meal he’s been waiting to eat.

“No, I don’t suppose that feigner is much for sharing secrets, is he?” His accent is refined, like a stroke of cursive on fresh parchment.

I shake my head.

A breeze carrying the scent of pine and lavender wafts between us. I fail at stifling a shiver.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks.

I study his expression, his posture, the language of his body. Greystone’s face holds a look of pleasure and mischief. He cocks an eyebrow, lowers his dark lashes, and wears a sensual smirk. Based on these details alone, he absolutely is nothing like Kane or Dessin. His posture is languid and cocky. And he seems to like waving two fingers around while he speaks.

I swallow. “Well, I don’t know you. Should I be afraid?”

Greystone takes a step back. “If you weren’t frightened by the manipulative murderer with a bad attitude, then I think you’ll feel safe with me.” He laughs with a closed mouth, and even the sound differs from Dessin’s laugh.

I nod to myself. He has a point.

“We do not have any alters that would ever harm you.” A flash of seriousness crosses his features. Relief washes over me. “As for annoying you, that’s a different topic altogether.”

My cheeks loosen into a smile. Wow, the asylum would have a field day if they knew how many people lived inside his head.

“How old are you, Greystone?” I decide I should start asking questions about the alters I meet. They might see themselves as older, younger, or perhaps look completely different.

“Thirty-one,” he drawls, voice like luxury bedsheets and warm honey. “Quite the age gap between you and me, hmm?”

I ignore that innuendo.

“How many alters are there?”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t keep track of those details.”

“What do you keep track of?” I ask.

Greystone’s shadowed eyes focus on me, locking on my stare like a mousetrap. A slow, chilling smile spreads over his mouth.

“Are you sure you want the answer to that?” he teases, watching my lips with ravenous intent.

I pause midnod. Do I? Yes, the more I know about him, the better.

“The sexual urges of this body. And who causes them.” His words drape over me like a colony of crawling insects.

“Oh,” I say. “Why?”

He’s silent for a moment as if questioning whether I know the answer to that or not.

“The mind splits for specific reasons of trauma. I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.”

I have. Hearing why Dessin ended up splitting when they were a child told me enough. But I was under the impression it could only happen once. Does this mean that every time he experienced trauma, a new alter was split off?

“You were split because of a different form of trauma,” I utter. Sexual urges. Oh, God. Does that mean—

“Sexual abuse,” he answers the question I had before finishing the thought. But he isn’t fazed. The two words seep from his lips as if they carry no weight. “I believe I was split when the body was around the age of six or seven. Demechnef training was easy for Dessin to overcome. But the thirty-year-old female orderly checking in on him at night wasn’t exactly what he was built for.”

My heart sinks to my toes, twisting itself into a painful knot of despair. He was molested.

A thought redirects my moment of shock. “And you’re thirty-one. Were you always this age?”

“Very good.” He nods once. “I have always been thirty-one. A grown man that would thoroughly enjoy that kind of attention.”

I might be sick. Bile coats my throat and sloshes over my tongue. How much has this man suffered? The sting of tears alerts me that I might lose my composure over this bit of news.

“It would help if you don’t show me sympathy.” He takes a step toward my wilting stance. “Each alter has a negative trigger that causes us to relive trauma. Mine is when I start to hate myself for sexual arousal.”

I swallow down my despair and clench my hands into fists. Get angry, then. Don’t let him see you cry over this.

“And to be clear… consent is a priority of mine. I figured you might be frightened of me, wondering if I—because of my trauma—wouldn’t understand the importance of it. But I do. It’s imperative to the other alters that I do.”

I straighten up, forcing myself to show him strength. “Do… the others know what you’ve experienced?” The others, as in whoever else is living in his mind.

Greystone shrugs, looking bored. “Some do. But others aren’t allowed to know. That’s the point of splitting, isn’t it? To keep that trauma away from those who couldn’t handle it.”

I’m learning so much already.

“May I ask you another question?”

“You may ask whatever pleases you. It pleases me to hear the sound of your voice.” But his eyes aren’t focused on where my voice is coming from. They’re roaming my body with wild intrigue.

“Have you met me before? Do you know who I am?” There are still secrets Dessin and Kane keep from me about my past. But Greystone could be the loophole I need to spill their secrets.

He shakes his head. “No, I am only triggered to surface around grown women,” he says. “But I do know of you, yes.”

“How old was I when you first heard of me?” I ask casually, slipping in the question that might tell me everything. Or enough to lead me to more questions.

“You were—”

He blinks slowly as if he’s ready to fall asleep. And those dark eyes fall out of focus. He chuckles. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon, my pretty Skylenna.”

Those words fade like drops of ink in a bucket of water.

His chest rises, a slow intake of breath. His once dark eyes now seem a little lighter, with a gleam of russet brown catching in the morning light.

He’s switching again. I hope it’s Kane or Dessin. I don’t know how much energy I have to meet someone new again.

The man lets out an aggravated groan. “I was hoping you’d never have to meet him.”

I smirk. “Greystone is lovely.”

“Greystone has loose lips,” he says, looking down at me with warm-chocolate eyes.

I study his features. I don’t think I’m speaking to Dessin. His stance is usually wider, asserting dominance and power. No, this person is calm with kind eyes.

“Kane?”

His lips spread into a surprised smile. “You don’t know how happy that makes me.”

“What?” I ask, smiling back.

“You recognized me.”