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

Dessin agreed to hours of various treatments for the harm he inflicted onto the orderlies during his outburst. I wasn’t allowed anywhere near him until they finished.

Hydrotherapy was first, then he was left in the coldest room of the asylum to reach near hypothermia. What followed after that, he asked that I didn’t inquire about. To spare me the knowledge of the severity of his punishment.

I sat in a washroom and sobbed alone until it was over.

It took some time this afternoon, but eventually, I made a case that sitting inside his room every single day without any other scenery wasn’t in anyone’s best interest. With Judas’s blessing, I managed to get two hours a day outside of Dessin’s room, and if he so much as looked at someone the wrong way, he would be sentenced back to solitude.

Together we sit in silence. Dessin glances down at his food residing beside him on the stone steps on the terrace. A sense of hopelessness sinks inside of me. I don’t know what I am going to do when this day is over and it is time for me to return to a home that isn’t mine. That now more closely resembles a cage.

I glance over at Dessin, taking in his short time of pretend freedom, the rays of the soft afternoon sun draping over the asylum garden like a cloak of protection, and the towering pine trees oscillating in the breeze. But when a dancing ray of light bounces off of his brow, I see that it is furrowed, and he is frowning.

“What is it?” I ask.

He turns his head so that I no longer have a clear view of his profile.

“You’re going to stay with him, aren’t you?” he asks, yet, in the absolution of his tone, I know he already knows the answer.

I stare at him, holding my breath, summoning the right answer with a silent prayer. I can’t leave Aurick. If I leave, I might as well kiss my position here goodbye.

And for that matter, Dessin goodbye with it.

He scoffs at my lack of an answer. “Are you going with Aurick to his grand, luxurious ball tomorrow?” 

Ball? Tomorrow? I can’t handle this right now. I don’t want to think about the near future or the distant one. I only want to sit here with him. I want to be distracted.

“I don’t know.” And we both know that my words are to answer both of his questions.

He finally turns to look at me, this time with eyes that force me to believe he hates me; he actually hates me. But a second longer, and I see something else, something deeper, stinging with buried pain. There’s a look of exhaustion and an unfamiliar yearning.

“I thought I’d have to fight you to keep from hunting him down. Why didn’t you?” I breathe in the spring air to calm my erratic emotions that continue to bottle up at the surface, threatening to burst at any sensitive trigger word.

He stares down at me. “Because I knew if I did, you might never have forgiven me. Even though it took every ounce of restraint I had to not give him a living autopsy.”

I flinch. “It’s really not a big de—” 

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he interrupts, holding a hand up to stop me. “Do you know how tormenting it has been to look at your face and see what he did to you? See the pain behind your smile?” Pause. Two breaths. “How—” his voice breaks, and he caresses his finger lightly under my right eye where the bruise sits under my makeup. “How could you stay with him after he did this to you?” There’s a sadness in his voice, a certain tenderness that comes out only when he’s talking about me. 

“I have nowhere to go.” I can’t explain it to him. If he knew I was staying so I can be with him, care for him in this death trap, ensure he’s not executed—he would do something explosive.

“Take my hand.” He stands up, holding his hand out to me. 

“Where are we going?” 

“If you’re going to be stupid, then I want you to be stupid with a good right hook.” I fold my hand over his and rise to my feet. 

“A what—”

We stand, facing one another in a secluded part of the garden in the backyard of the asylum. A clump of giant trees surrounds us, making a fluttering symphony as the leaves wave at us from up above our heads.

I try to mimic his stance. His feet apart, knees slightly bent. His warrior’s resting spot. My body tingles with adrenaline like shaking up a bottle of ale.

“Charge me,” he says. I blink, my mind and body remaining in a state of hibernation. “Skylenna, charge me. Try to choke me.”

Sudden uneasiness takes root in my stomach. “Wait, you want me to be the attacker?!” I take a step back. “I thought we were trying to avoid poking my eye out?” 

He laughs, gazing at me as if he were adoring a child singing a song out of order. “I’m not going to hurt you.” The wind picks up, and my hair is being strewn across my face and neck. “At least not until you get good at this.” He winks.

At that, I charge him, moving at a jogging pace. My hands reach his throat. I manage to push him against a tree, although I know he didn’t resist.

Meanwhile, this entire three seconds, he is holding my gaze, intensely staring down at me with dark lashes and chocolate-brown eyes. Once I fully become aware that it is his turn to defend himself, I tense up. With one swift movement, Dessin’s left arm shoots straight up, then he twists his body and uses that elbow to bend down over my forearms, unlocking my hands from his throat.

He twirls me around him and presses my body into the tree he was once against in the lightest way possible. His forearm locks against my throat with no pressure added to it.  

I grunt, not from pain but shock and frustration. He has my hands bound behind my back by only one of his hands, and his body is barricading me against a tree. For a split second, there’s that pull again—the invisible fishing line that reels me into him, tempting me to reach my hand up to his jaw and wait to see how he’ll react.

And for that split second, the same look of temptation sits like honey in his eyes.

“You would have seen that coming if you weren’t undressing me with those pretty green eyes,” he says. 

A quick jolt of heat in my belly. Like candle wax. “How could I have missed it? You moved at a glacially slow pace.”

His chest rumbles with a closed-mouth laugh. What would he look like naked?

I wiggle my way out of his grip and turn to face him. “Teach me.”

He demonstrates again. One arm straight in the air. Turn. Use the elbow to break the hold. I practice on him slowly, ensuring my movements are in good form.

After we both feel confident in my ability to replicate the moves faster, he says, “Attack me again. Swing at me.”

I lunge at him, this time with a fist ready to swing, aiming for his jaw. I assume he sees this action coming from a mile away; somehow, I end up on my back with my arms pressed against the dirt on either side of my body. 

“You’re crushing my appendix!” I groan, spitting my own hair out of my mouth.

“You don’t even know where your appendix is.” Oh.

I blow a raspberry as I try to suppress an embarrassed laugh. “Interesting.”

He raises himself anyway, lifting his weight from my gut.

I grimace, panting in his face. “How am I supposed to magically learn how to do that?!” I have a strong feeling that I am going to disappoint him repeatedly. 

“You’re not. But it was fun.” That wicked, playful smile is like the heat of a fireplace after walking through the snow.

He lifts me back to my feet with one tug.

“Again,” he says.

I raise my hand to jab him in the throat, and he blocks my motion like swatting away a fly—but I knew he would. This gives me full access to jump onto him like a monkey, arms wrapped around his neck and legs tied to his hips.

His eyes widen, and he stumbles. Finally, I make a move that catches him by surprise.

“Another move, and you’re dead—you—you man pig!” I shake him with a deeper registered tone that is supposed to sound authoritative.

He laughs, exasperated and airy. “Man pig?” he says, placing his hands on my hips to hold me up. “Your hidden vault of insults is most impressive.”

“Did I catch you off guard?” I pant with a raised eyebrow. 

“Mhm.” He’s smiling, watching me with a bewildering look as if I’m the crazy one. “An attractive woman leaping into one’s arms and wrapping her legs around their hips might give them the wrong idea though…” He sets me down, straightens his white shirt. “And then you ruined it with your very intimidating catchphrase.” He begins laughing to himself again.

“Attractive, huh?” I cross my arms. I’ve never compared myself to other women to know what is deemed as attractive. I have the narrow waist and long legs that most women dream of, but my skin is slightly golden instead of paper white, and my bum isn’t skin and bone. It’s round and cushioned when I sit. How would one know if they are attractive with these outrageous beauty standards?

“Semi-attractive.” He looks around the trees to see if anyone is near. “Ish.” He tilts his head.

For the next hour, we continue different tactics and approaches. He shows me step by step how he deflects and how to use his body weight against him. Finally, I let my body fumble to the grass in exhaustion. I’m not used to being this active for such a long period of time. Actually, not any time at all. 

“I believe I understand something about you. About why you are dragging out telling me what happened to you.” I breathe in deeply, catching the scent of a warm cabin and roasted chestnuts. “I suppose it’s a theory. But if it is true, it makes us more alike than we thought.”

He half smirks. “What have you come up with?”

“I can’t talk about Scarlett… About what happened to her, because I can’t face what I have done. Speaking about the day she died would be like holding up a mirror and seeing myself for the villain I truly am. I cannot forgive myself, and that guilt is burning me from the inside out.” I pause, looking into his eyes as he lies next to me. “I know I recognize that feeling in you. The guilt of something you’ve done or someone you’ve hurt. I can see it when I look into your eyes, just as you can see it when you look into mine.”

After briefly looking away, his eyes connect with mine, the way fire catches to wood. “There is much irony in your words.” Sigh. “One day, you’ll understand.”

“You don’t have to confirm that I’ve uncovered something about you. I know I have.”

He ignores me. Gazing back up at the clear sky.

“What scares you most in this world?”

“Why would you want to know that?” he finally responds.

“Humor me.”

He looks down and then back up with an idea. “If you can figure that out by the ninetieth day, then I will tell you his name, and step away from the front.”

“You mean you have a choice if he is brought back to the surface or not?”

He nods once and blinks twice, as if that was an obvious observation.

“I accept the challenge.” I don’t know why I always let him suck me into his games, but I can’t bring myself to walk away from them. I feel the best way to get to him is not to resist but to let him consume me, as dangerous as that might be.