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

I can’t help myself.

The laugh rushes out of me like a deflating balloon.

It’s Dessin’s face. The sudden surprise that the woman knows my name. I’ve been waiting for him to have a taste of his own medicine. His dark-mahogany eyes jolt back to me, offended and fighting to hide the surprise on his face.

“Is that funny to you?” he asks, tone as sharp as a new sword.

I nod.

“And what name should I call you at this moment? I know you have many.” The woman takes a step forward, and Dessin is on his feet.

I stop laughing.

Knowing my name is one thing; it’s another to know about his mental state. How could she possibly know of the other alters? I didn’t even know that until recently.

Dessin takes a taunting step forward, looming over me like a reaper of chaos.

“That prophecy of yours knows intimate details about my life,” he says calmly. Too calm. It’s the peace in the eye of a storm. “Details that I’ve kept hidden at great cost to me.”

The woman lifts her chin, quickly becoming aware that she has treaded too far. “My name is—”

But Dessin has a sword slicing through the air until he reaches her neck. The woman is nailed to a tree, broad hands encapsulating her pallid throat.

“I’ve killed for less,” he growls next to her ear.

I’m on my feet with DaiSzek, who is snarling at the sudden outbreak of violence. He can’t kill her. We need to find out how she knows so much.

“The woman who—birthed you,” she croaks. That colorless face swiftly turned a sickly shade of pink. “Sophia!” she blurts with every bit of strength she has left.

Dessin loosens his grip, awakened in a way by the name of Kane’s mother.

“Speak.”

“She must have shared the stories of the colonies. And when she did, she would have given you advice for when you are grown and in a time of need!” The woman’s words that were once laced with sultry appeal and warm vanilla sweetness are now urgent and forced.

Dessin looks off in the distance. Listening. Waiting. Analyzing something no one else can hear.

Kane.

Sophia must have told all of this to Kane, not Dessin. He’s scouring their memories or listening to Kane confirm or deny this new information.

Dessin’s eyes dart back to the woman, still gasping for breath. “She said to seek out the seven forests for safe harbor. The ancient colonies know more than the city.” He speculates her stance, those eyes suffused with menacing darkness. “What is your name?”

“Runa,” she says, standing straighter now. “Our prophecy says you would stumble in our territory at the years of nineteen and twenty-three.”

The space between them collapses as Dessin backs away, sliding his glance to me.

“You want to help us?” I ask.

“So it is written.”

I find Dessin’s gaze. “We should go with her,” I tell him. “At least until we know more about this prophecy.”

But he isn’t sure. If it isn’t written in his grand plan, it must not have been written at all. The confusion and doubt casting over his features are like shooting stars. Rare. Mythical, even.

I inch forward. “We owe it to Sophia to look into this.”

His attention snaps back to me like a rubber band. Confusion clears from the murky water of his mind. He nods. Although, I can see it isn’t easy or natural for him to be deterred from his own plans.

Dessin turns on his heels to face Runa. “If you betray us… I won’t hesitate to behead you first.”

Understanding washes over her cold, pointed expression. If she knows as much as she claims, then it should be apparent to her that Dessin is true to his word.

~

Venturing back into the Evergreen Dark Wood is a dower, silent journey. Dessin keeps me close to his side as we follow behind Runa. He’s on high alert, watching her steps with precise detail, scanning the forest for threats, even with DaiSzek keeping a closer eye on the perimeter.

“Is there anything we need to know before entering a fortress that may or may not try and trap us inside?” Dessin’s skepticism rolls off his tongue with lazy ease.

“Actually, yes.” Runa turns her head to give us a side-glance. “We never see outsiders here. And most don’t believe in prophecy anymore. It’s the way of our ancestors and since nearly forgotten to our generation.”

I hadn’t realized I was fidgeting with my hair until Dessin’s hand caressed my back, calming the nervous current running through me. My body sighs in relief, air expelling in a silent flutter from my lungs.

“I will need the two of you to blend in until I can introduce you to our elders,” she adds.

Dessin rolls his eyes, knowing there was a catch.

“Blend in, how?” I ask.

“The Nightamous Horde is known for three things. First, being descendants of Dark Elves. Second, we love to drink. And last, but most importantly, we love to fuck.”

I stumble over my left foot and nearly take a nosedive into the dirt. Dessin hooks an arm around my waist to steady me.

“Come again?” he says.

“It’s a way of life, as natural as breathing. You must breathe to show people you’re alive, right? Well, when you blend in, I’ll need you two to toss your prude nature to the side and sink into the shadows of what you would consider lewd acts and improper closeness.” Runa stops, facing us now with a casual smile.

“Is that all?” I scoff.

“We’re not doing that,” Dessin states in a clipped tone.

Runa arches a white brow. “You will if you don’t want your travel companion to be swept off and ravaged by another male of thirsty intent.”

Dessin makes a sound that is a feral cross between a snarl and a grunt. Before he can act on his monstrous need to silence her, I stop him with a shaky hand against his chest.

“We don’t have to actually—have intercourse, do we? We just have to….”

“Blend in with those hungry enough to feast on one another? Perform like you’re close to finding a vacant room to come to completion? Yes,” Runa finishes my sentence with a coy grin. “If that’s putting your rapport in jeopardy, I’d be happy to take your place in his arms for the night.” She tilts her chin up at Dessin in a challenge.

I’m going to flick her. A quick snap of my finger to the base of her throat.

“A generous offer,”—I smile sweetly at Runa—“but his performance wouldn’t be convincing with you. I’ll do it.”

Dessin’s head has never turned so fast. He glares down at me, his brow furrowing in question and surprise. Are you sure? casts over his eyes like a shadow dragging its feet.

I shrug. “It’s like a game, right? We’re playing a part.”

The emotions on his face quickly dissolve in the air, a puff of silence. The aftermath of a natural disaster before casualties are counted. “Yes,” he rasps, “exactly like a game.”

Aha! I knew that would do it. Dessin’s magic word. Game.

But there’s a threat wading through the treacherous waters of his mind. A warning like a powerful gust of wind. A message that looks like “some lines cannot be uncrossed.”

~

Runa gives Dessin and me clothes to change into. Shreds of material we would never have worn in the city. A cave Runa stays in when she hunts gives us privacy to change.

I have trouble slipping into the tight straps of black leather and the sheer tights over my legs. I am, at the very least, grateful for the black cloak that will cover half of my face. My breasts are pressed up to my collarbone, half of my stomach is bare and exposed, and the fabric covering my legs is so tight I’m afraid sitting down will cause it to split.

I can’t wait to see what Dessin looks like.

Stepping out into the dim light of the forest, I see him leaning against the cave wall. He’s wearing a sleeveless black tunic and matching trousers.

I grimace at his casual posture. Arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed as he sifts through his own thoughts.

“How come he doesn’t have to wear a death trap of wire and straps?!” I pluck a stretchy band covering my ribs and snap it, making a slapping sound against my skin.

Dessin’s attention redirects to me.

“That’s all I have,” Ruse offers.

“She’s not wearing that.” Dessin sets his jaw and tightens his shoulders.

“Oh really?” I cough out a laugh. “Well, now I’m definitely wearing it!” I try to bump Dessin’s arm with my shoulder as I storm past him, but he snags my wrist.

“Hell no,” he growls under his breath. The sound of his hardening anger curls my toes in the boots Runa lent me.

“Fine. Would you like to take it off yourself?”

Dessin blinks, partially stunned, partially amused.

“Greystone would like it. Maybe he would be more equipped to handle this,” I bite.

What has gotten into me? Jealousy? Over Runa? It’s like an inconsistent flicker of fire. Some moments it burns me and spreads like a virus. Others, it’s extinguished. Nothing more than a slow ribbon of smoke.

I glance up at him, my cheeks burning as if I’d fallen asleep in the sun.

Dessin narrows his eyes. “You know, I’m certain Aurick’s thongs cover more flesh than this. But why not? It’s only a game.”

I’d laugh at his Aurick jab if it weren’t for his use of the word game. As if it’s a weapon. A tool to hurt me. A reminder that he wouldn’t actually touch me if we weren’t pretending.

Without further discussion, we follow Rune to the Nightamous Horde. A series of scattered caves that have been carved into taverns, miniature Gothic castles, and entryways to candlelit homes. A village of stone and fire. A kingdom of the shadows and dark elf descendants.

Runa reminds us to keep our cloaks over our heads, shielding half our faces from being recognized as outsiders. This act is common with new couples. A way to show other males and females the claim on one another has been staked.

She must request an audience with their elders, leaving us to blend in until she returns.

We’re led into a cave that runs long and wide. Stone teeth like hanging icicles at its opening, and a mouth that glows from the fireplace and candlelit iron chandeliers. The air is clouded with a thin fog and the distinct scent of leather, liquor, and cigar smoke.

The tavern is as wild as a pack of hyenas.

Passing the threshold is emerging into a dark circus. A chilling fantasy of dark elf descendants in their habitat. Gambling, drinking, and erotic displays of affection. From a touch of violin and the low staccato of a piano, music combined with boisterous noises of clanking silverware and shrill shrieks of pleasure.

I’ve never seen anything like this before.

Clusters of tangled limbs, arched backs, and flesh glistening with sweat. Laughing women, intoxicated men, greedy hands, and lurkers who watch from the shadows.

My innocence is clipped like the wings of a bird as I watch the lust roll from their careless fun. Dessin stiffens at my side.

The women are dressed like Runa. Black, lacy undergarments and knee-high boots. Some are in the laps of their chosen, others are splayed on the tabletops, hair soaking in the puddles of spilled drinks. A few men pin their eager victims against the cave walls, cupping their breasts and tasting their necks, chests, and other parts with feral hunger.

What have I gotten myself into?

“Find a table. I’ll get you drinks,” Runa purrs to Dessin, disappearing into the dimly lit cave of moans and laughter.

We stand there in silence, in shock, in debilitating stillness.

I overshot. This is so much worse than I imagined.

“Fuck.” Never in my life have I dared to utter a curse word. But it slips out, leaking from my lips like a string of drool. I said it under my breath, too quiet to be heard by the crowd.

But Dessin whips his head to me. And although the cloak shields his eyes with a heavy pour of shadow, I see his mouth part.

“Excuse me?” he says in shocked amusement. “Skylenna”—he chokes on a laugh—“did you just curse?”

I cringe. My father hated curse words. I’ve never even had the urge to recite one. How does this view provoke such profanity but the asylum doesn’t?

His chest rumbles with unexpected laughter.

“Don’t get used to it.” I poke him with my elbow. “Let’s sit down before I lose my nerve.”

My legs move quickly through the tables, failing to avoid being bumped and caressed. I drop down to a wooden bench connected to a heavy oak table. My heart gallops in my chest, stuttering, palpitating, causing my breath to be choppy and uneven.

The voices fill the air around me. Taste me. Open wide. You want to fuck both of us, don’t you? It’s foreign and never heard of in the world I grew up in. Only words of such vulgarity are said in the beds of husband and wife.

“Bite off more than you could chew?” Dessin muses as he sits down on the bench beside me. Usually, his presence is calming. But today, in this erotic setting, it only churns my stomach into elastic putty.

I shake my head, looking down. “It’s like they’re purposefully trying to be the exact opposite of the Chandelier City.”

“Our people have been here far longer than yours, little girl.” Runa sets down two worn-down, gray chalices.

I clench my cloak in my sweaty hands, lowering my bulging eyes.

Breathe.

The overwhelming urge to draw the puppet, the strings, the sad, upturned brow, triggers a nervous twitch in my fingers.

“We can leave if you’re afraid,” Dessin says into his chalice.

I shake my head. Nope, no backing down. You’re the one who had to open your big mouth. I can do this. It’s just a game. Pretending.

Runa disappears from the tavern to request an audience with their elders. I make a mistake looking for her, scanning the writhing bodies of powdery-white skin and black, lustful eyes. They’re worshipping each other. Teasing. Fondling.

It’s too much.

I remember that Greystone is triggered to the front when the body is sexually aroused. “Will Greystone surface”—I wave a hand around the tavern—“from all of this?”

He shakes his head. “He won’t come near the front when we could be in danger. Even if he’s intrigued by the surroundings.” A quick eye roll.

I gulp. Well, at least the thought distracted me for a moment.

Dessin’s firm hand grips my knee, pushing my leg down to stop it from bouncing. But his touch, although simple and innocent, triggers forbidden anticipation for his closeness. A sharp spike of excitement and pleasure twists through me.
“Your nerves are setting my teeth on edge,” he says, low and strained.

I relax my leg under the weight of his hand, softening my tightly coiled muscles. At this, his grip loosens, but he doesn’t move away. His thumb traces my inner thigh in lazy circles.

I’m a vessel of electric nerve endings.

A soft moan, like a sigh blended with a hum, escapes me. I reach for my chalice, bringing it to my lips to drown out the noises I want to keep making at Dessin’s touch. A silky bittersweetness fills my mouth, and I swallow it down. Wine. Chilled and passing down my throat with ease.

Without glancing down, I can feel his hand shift higher. The comforting caress is a fog that envelops me. Heat simmers between my legs.

I make the mistake of glancing up at him. Those dark-mahogany eyes are hooded and watching me closely. He’s a caged animal, walking the perimeter of our boundaries. But that glazed look in his stare is dangerous. It’s pure heat, an agonizing craving.

And there’s a yearning in my chest. A string pulling my heart from my chest to be closer to him. I gulp and turn away.

My eyes meet a dangerously tall man walking past our table. Long white hair, down to his midstomach. Shirtless. He slows his stride to inspect me curiously.

Dessin’s fingers dig into my thigh, probably aware before I am of the man’s attention.

Terror runs its jagged talons down my back. He could figure out I’m an outsider. He could alert the rest of the room. I act swiftly, like butter coating my joints. I turn to face Dessin, running two fingers down the mountains of his arm.

“When are you going to taste me?” I ask, stealing the command I heard earlier from a woman spreading her legs on a tabletop.

The man keeps walking, but Dessin doesn’t seem to notice. He becomes a living statue. His breath hitches in his lungs, jaw clenches, and that hand on my thigh is a steel clamp that might never come off.

“Is that what you want?” he asks with cruel decadence. “To feel my mouth again?”

That night in the lagoon is a faded dream. A hazed hallucination. His lips grazing my jawline. His tongue running over my ear. A hot, sensitive lash of ecstasy pours through me like lava.

I nod.

He moves fast. Hands on my waist, lifting me off the bench and setting me on his lap with graceful ease. My legs straddle his thighs. And if I’m not mistaken, he wants me to feel the growing length in his trousers, pressing against my center. Excited panic splashed over my face like unexpected summer rain.

“Dessin,” I utter.

“There,” he says, low and gravelly. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Those powerful hands slide down from my waist to my hips, then circling around to my curvy bottom. He squeezes, and I’m melting against him. An icicle becoming a puddle in a new season’s warmth. He jerks me harder against him, pressing his heavy erection against me at an agonizing angle.

“Do you feel that?” His voice is vicious and taunting. The exact calculated tone that he used on others in the asylum. A mask. The alpha coming out to play.

I nod.

His eyes are glazed, nothing like the clear focus I usually see.

“That’s what happens when you touch me, Skylenna.” He reaches for his chalice, taking a small sip. “How agonizing that must have been for me in the asylum. My hands shackled to the wall while you kneeled at my feet. Those pretty hands grasping my arms.”

My lips part. But I can’t speak.

“You were clueless then, weren’t you?” His hands tighten around my backside. “If I keep you in my lap long enough, will I start to feel that slickness between your legs?”

My gasp is audible. Stuttering and loud.

He pauses, staring down at my parted lips like he wants to lick them, bite them, take them into his mouth. For a moment, as brief as it might be, I think he might kiss me. Finally, instead, he lifts his chalice again.

“Roll your hips against me,” he commands, blinking slowly as if to clear that lustful haze from behind his lids. “I want to feel how warm you are while I finish my drink.”

I hesitate, unsure of how to do what he’s asking of me. I arch my back away from him, then roll my hips forward to meet his hardness again. My core tightens, aching for something to fill it.

Dessin hisses in his cup.

Sexual energy vibrates through my bones. This motion feels natural. Primal. Like I was born to move against him like this. My stomach somersaults and my center is suddenly slick and hot, tingling from my thighs to my ribs.

I do it again and again until the motion starts an animalistic frenzy in me. A guttural moan rushes from my throat. Dessin’s jaw flexes, and he sighs like he’s been waiting for this for far too long.

“Tell me how good that feels,” he growls.

“Feels… amazing,” I pant, lowering my forehead to his as my hands clasp the back of his neck. Oh god. I’ve wanted to put my hands freely on him since I met him. The desire seemed unquenchable.

Movement distracts me. A man bends a woman over a table, tossing plates of food to the floor. I’m certain they’re about to cross over from foreplay to actual intercourse.

Two firm fingers lock around my chin, turning me back to Dessin.

“I am the only man that gets your eyes tonight.” He looks up at me from under a curtain of dark lashes. A scolding that tastes like pleasure and euphoria. “Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.” The simple response of respect spills out of me before I realize all he wanted was for me to repeat his statement to confirm what I heard.

And at my words, Dessin unfolds.