The Pawn and The Puppet (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 1)

Scarlett was taken from her home when she was seven years old.

For five days, she was taken by a man that reeked of tobacco and had gangrene on his feet. He lived alone, in a small cottage on the edge of Hangman’s Valley, keeping little Scarlett in his coat closet while he touched her in places she shouldn’t have been touched and made her touch him. This went on for five days before our mother picked her up and took her home.

There was a part of Scarlett that believed it wasn’t an abduction at all. That our mother profited from this trip.

When I was brought back to reality from our hideaway in the basement, the fearful folk around me used the word abduction. But they didn’t understand. They thought they all knew who Scarlett was, but they would never know that her version of the word made mine look like a holiday. I was not abducted. To be truthful, I would have gone willingly.

Aurick stumbles around the kitchen, disoriented and dazed, looking for the liquor cabinet. He heard about what happened at the asylum today. He met me in the buggy outside on the gravel driveway to embrace me in his arms, apologies trickling from his tongue. I told him, I told everyone, I was unharmed.

“Did the patient touch you in other ways?” Aurick demanded to know as if the other ways were worse than physical harm.

But now, after I’ve assured him that I am fine—well, better than fine—I can only admit to myself, and no one else, that I am energized. Filled with an eagerness for my next meeting with Dessin. Now, Aurick can soothe his own soul with substances I’d rather not partake in.

Although, something rather delectable came from my trip to the tunnels. A slice of peach cobbler and a cold glass of milk. And Aurick allowed me to skip my lady-doll regimen. The colorful vision of seeing myself slip off my uniform to dive straight into the fluffy, white, feathered bed is the icing on this warm cobbler.

But tonight, Aurick is the dark shadow from a low-hanging tree. With each sugary bite I place into my mouth, savoring every slimy drop of residue, Aurick looms over me like a vengeful ghost. He aggressively swigs more brown liquid into his wet mouth, all while keeping his eyes burning into my seated body.

“Did he rape you?” he asks, flecks of spit sprinkling down onto the table.

I drop my fork as well as my jaw. “No,” I mumble.

He scoffs, taking another sip from his expensive crystal bottle, sitting beside me. I sigh, relieved he isn’t hovering behind me anymore.

“Red was raped once.”

“Who?” I ask.

“My fiancée.” He uses his free hand to slick his black hair back with the moisture from his forehead.

“Fiancée?” She’s dead. He said she was dead. “But—”

“Ex.” He squeezes his piercing eyes shut and waves me off. “I called her Red.”

This day is never ending. I take a final scoop of sugared peaches in my mouth because the way this conversation is going, the night might go sour soon.

“She was raped by my father.”

What? Yes, good call with the cobbler. Fork is down. I’m listening.

He unbuttons his shirt halfway down his sternum. “My father was a cold man, with a large ego and a strong grip.” Another sip. “He had eyes like a snake and handled women like they were his puppets. And his words, his way of articulating a point, were his greatest weapon. He could strip a person down and expose their greatest insecurities with one sentence.”

He focuses momentarily on my plate, half-eaten cobbler, then back at his bottle to trace his finger around its lid.

“He never hurt me, though. He was much too prideful to harm his flesh and blood. It wasn’t until the night I proposed to Red that he pinned her down and forced himself inside of her.”

I clasp my hand over my mouth. I can’t believe he’s sharing this with me.

“She told me immediately after it was over. Never kept a single secret from me. We shared anything and everything,” he says sharply, eyes finding mine once more.

“Aurick—”

A hand goes up to stop me. “Which is why it is hard for me to be left in the dark by you all of the time. You come home—share a meal with me—and avoid all of my questions about the asylum.” He leans closer, bourbon poisoning the air around us. “You are my friend. Friends don’t shut each other out.”

I lean back into my chair, the hands of fear pushing against my shoulders, pinning me in my seat to stare at him. No. Don’t make me leave.

“You’re right… I’m sorry. You’ve been so gracious to me—it’s not fair how I’ve kept everything confidential. It’s only—the images I’ve seen—the torture haunts me. I did not want my friend to also bear that burden.”

And tonight, I finish my dessert and tell him about my experiences at the asylum thus far. Sharing the horrors, the treatments, the blood, the patients, their histories. We sit on my white, fluffy, feathered bed, and he listens. I tell him about my plans, about the plans Scarlett shared with me. I paint a vivid picture of Chekiss and Niles. And after it all, I’m weightless, floating to the ceiling, afraid I might fly freely into the world on a stiff wind with nothing left to hold me down.

Of course, not nothing. I didn’t dare share my moments with Dessin. The totems that brought ugly feelings from within my soul. The obsession with meeting him. I told him the bare minimum.

Because it is not my secret. It’s ours.