Chapter 3

S he looks beautiful with my hoops in her. It took hours for the surgery. I had to debride her wound before I could close it, and while she was already under, I took the opportunity of silence to pierce her in peace. It’s a much simpler task than when they’re awake.

Something about her is different than the others. Where they’d immediately begun ripping at the hoops, she asked how she was to be my perfect puppet.

Dr. Lynn says this fantasy of mine stems from a life that was out of my control, but I think I’m just searching for a bit of pleasure in a world full of hate and misery.

I’m not some loose cannon who can’t control his urges. I do it all fucking year.

No. I’m just searching for a bit of happiness, not unlike anyone else.

The fire in her eyes told me she might be the one .

But I thought that about Valerie, too. She’s buried somewhere deep in the woods, her hoops the only thing likely not rotten now. At least now, her outward appearance will match her wicked insides.

She nearly broke me more. And in turn, it pushed me closer to the edge of whatever madness I teeter all year long. She made me think she loved me, and for that, she’s six feet under now.

The railways I created in the ceiling run the house’s expanse, even upstairs. My new toy is on strings, hooked to one solid board. The board is connected to a system that allows her to move freely. It also allows me to unhook her if and when I see fit.

Crawling on the ground, I search her upturned car for anything I can find. Her purse is on the passenger side, and I’m thankful it hadn’t fallen out.

This morning, before she woke, I cleaned the roadway free of any debris from her crash and picked up the spikes, not that anyone will travel this stretch of road for the next week.

Hauling the bag toward me, I sit up and lean against the crumpled Civic.

Opening her wallet, I search for her ID, which I find haphazardly thrown inside, not in a specific pocket or holder. This gives the impression that she’s an unorganized mess or doesn’t take a certain amount of pride in her identity.

Maybe she will be malleable after all.

Grace Wilcott, the lisence reads .

Grace.

The name rattles through my head, and I can’t help the immediate reaction.

I rub my cock through my jeans, trying to appease it a little with some attention.

I dump the rest of her bag out.

What women keep in their bags tells the story of them. It took me three girls to figure that out.

She has an inhaler—that I pocket—a hair brush, a few random pieces of makeup, pain medication, and a book.

Not much.

Other women had their purses full to the brim with shit that they likely had forgotten was inside.

Not my Grace, however.

She’s a simple creature.

I like that.

I stuff the purse back together and spy her phone.

It’s in a black case covered with snakes slithering over the plastic. It’s edgy, and I feel something thrumming in my stomach at the sight of it.

It’s locked and needs her fingerprint to open.

But the missed calls on the notifications screen tell me her mom is looking for her already and could become a problem.

I power it off to turn off any location, something I should’ve done last night.

But I’d been too distracted by her.

I was too caught up in fixing her once I got a good look at her .

I’ve had to start over before when a victim got themselves hurt in the chase back to the house, and I could have last night, too. Something about Grace, however, had me delving into my daytime professional knowledge to piece her back together without a second thought.

I need her whole if I’m going to play with her.

That thought reminds me I haven’t fed her, and I groan as I shove the phone in her purse and make my way back to the house.

She’s right where I left her on the bed when I bring her a sandwich and water.

Her hazel eyes track my every move, trying to see through my mask every chance she gets.

It wouldn’t hurt for her to see my face, not when she’ll end up dead just like the others, but something is unsettling about her. So, I listen to my gut and keep the mask firmly over my face.

“I need you to eat,” I tell her, and she eyes me warily.

“You’re trying to keep me alive?” she asks, snagging the sandwich from me and taking a tentative bite.

Her pupils dilate as she realizes how hungry she is and takes another. My veins burn with an ache I’ve never felt before, and my hands flex as I watch her swallow the food down.

“How will you be my perfect puppet if you’re dead?” I ask her, batting the ball back into her court.

She licks her lips, taking another big bite of the peanut butter and jelly, chewing longer than is necessary as she keeps her mouth busy enough to think her words over before she says them.

“If I’m your good girl, I get to go home?” she asks.

The way she said the good girl has my skin on fire, and I can’t ignore the painful erection in my jeans much longer if I’m going to keep my sanity in hand.

The idea of letting her go is abhorrent, but I need her to have a goal to work towards, or this won’t work.

I’ve learned that the hard way, too.

I nod. “Yes.”

Her breathing speeds as she finishes her sandwich. I hand her the glass of water, and she gulps it down.

“Will you tell me the rules?”

I narrow my gaze at her. She’s too perfect, and I know she’s trying to play me to survive. Half of me gets angry at the thought, but I need to remain level-headed, so I brush the anger under the proverbial mat and sit taller on the edge of the bed.

“You will do as you’re told and never sass back. You have free rein of the house, as your strings are connected to a series of tracks that’ll allow you to go wherever you want to, but you’ll stay out of the last door on the right upstairs. You won’t harm yourself or remove your hoops from your flesh, and you will never try to run from me.”

She takes it all in, weighing out what she thinks she can handle. The cogs in her eyes turn as she thinks deeply.

“You’ve done this before.” It’s not a question. It’s an observation .

I nod. “I have.”

“How many survived?” she asks, her voice growing meek.

“None.”

She tugs her knees into her chest as sadness veils the strength I’d watched growing in her over the last few minutes.

I usually like sadness and fear, but I find it appalling on her.

I push the stupidity away, however, and keep myself even keel.

“Now, are you ready for your first task?” I ask her, excitement winding through me as I clean up her plate and cup and head for the kitchen.

I leave the door open, hoping she will follow.

And she does.

When I turn back, I watch her as she tries to get used to her strings. She’ll never be able to put her arms down at her sides, and for the first few days, her hoops will be too fresh to let her arms dangle against them, so I watch as she winces in pain as she tries.

“What is my first task?” she asks me, finally resting her arms awkwardly. She looks like the perfect puppet already as her bare body teases me delicately from across the room.

“Dance for me.”

Her look of confusion only lasted a moment before she began to twirl.

I dropped into the chair before the fire, taking a glass of whiskey with me as I settled in to watch her twirl and spin.

She grinds her hips this way and that, swaying on them when she gets a bit dizzy—aftereffects of the drug I’d used to put her under.

Her full, curvy body sashays and teases as she moves closer, her arms moving on her strings the best they can.

Her nipples bead as she dances closer to me and the chair.

When she turns around and swivels her hips, her generous ass jiggles and teases.

I’ve never had a puppet come around and try to survive me so quickly, and I can’t say I mind it.

It’s sexy, even.

I know she will eventually turn and start to fight me. She’ll eventually break a rule or try to run, and it won’t end well, but I might as well soak it up while she’s cordial.

While it lasts.

“Face me, puppet,” I order, voice filled with gravel and heat.

She listens immediately, stepping even closer to the monster in the mask that has captured her, bringing her beautiful curves to a stop between my splayed legs.

My toes wiggle in my boots, anticipating what Grace will do next, and I lick my lips.

Though she can’t see my face, I wish she was looking at me and not this damned mask.

“Give me your foot,” I command, and she lifts a brow.

Without another word, she balances on one foot, lifting the other in the air with great effort, pointing her toe as she presents her foot to me.

Sitting forward, I let her foot rest on my chest as I lift my whiskey over her knee.

With my free hand, I lift her big toe toward my open mouth, using it to tip the mask up a bit as I pour the liquid fire down her leg and let it dribble onto my tongue. Her taste imbues with the malted drink, flavoring it slightly before it cascades off her toe and down my throat. Some of it dribbles over her thigh and hits the floor, but I don’t pay any attention to that. When the glass is empty, I close my lips around her toe, reveling in the soft squeak that comes from her lips as I suck all the whiskey off her flesh.

When I’m done, my hand splays over the inside of her alcohol-covered thigh, sopping it up before I take my hand back to my mouth, tongue darting out to lap at my palm.

Her breathing is erratic, and I can almost taste the fear permeating her flesh, but she doesn’t let it show enough for me to care .

No. She pushed past her fear and allowed me to see how good she could be for me.

She rose above.

And for that, she’ll be rewarded.

Her master will show her what good little puppets get for behaving.

“Go to bed and wait for me,” I tell her dismissively, and it’s all I can do to make my tone sound bored and even.

Inside of me is a ravenous monster thrilled with the prey in his grasp, but I’m also a skilled killer who knows that if you spook prey, its terror will ruin its meat.

So I must tread carefully.