The Pawn and The Puppet (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 1)
The Pawn and The Puppet: Chapter 40

He winks down at me, then readjusts to greet the table of conformists and orderlies. “Good evening.”

The only sound is silverware crashing to the floor.

I’ve never felt such a tidal wave of happiness—not at any point in my life—not like this.

“I did not receive my invitation to this soiree, so I thought I’d bless the host with my unannounced drop-in.” He wears a comfortable smirk, then shoots a side-glance to Meridei.

As he circles the table, I notice his tuxedo, jet black, a little tight around the arms and chest. Pleasure simmers in my gut at the sight of him.

“How did you escape the asylum?” Belinda chokes out.

“Is my attire appropriate? I borrowed it from Aurick’s wardrobe.” Dessin loosens his collar, maintaining eye contact with the hostess, who still hasn’t unclenched her hand from her champagne.

He broke into Aurick’s mansion? Why?!

Dessin turns the corner around the table, approaching Meridei slowly, prowling with purpose, with the confidence of a tiger swaggering around hens.

“Do you replace me attractive, Meridei?”

I have to do a double take at this one. What did he just say?

Meridei’s porcelain cheeks flush a deep maroon that spreads to the tip of her squished nose.

He leans down in front of her, using the tips of his fingers to coax her champagne back to her lips. She doesn’t resist. As if in a spiritual trance, she gulps the bubbles down loudly. Dessin grins at the gold liquid disappearing into her mouth.

My heart sinks like an anchor falling through quicksand.

Okay, whose side is he on? It’s as if I’ve just walked in on an intimate moment in the bedroom. My chest opens up, and I hold my breath behind pursed lips. An agitation, like a shock of caffeine, curls my toes inside of my shoes, straightening my legs until my thighs burn under the table—a trickle effect. Why is this making me so angry?

“Good girl.” His voice is low and sultry, unlike the many times he expresses irritation with these individuals. And she’s starstruck, baffled, unable to recognize that she has a roomful of guests watching the show.

Desire flows through me like lava. It melts my bones and floods between my thighs. Jesus, how can I be jealous and aroused at his performance?

He sets the glass down, then looks around the table—his highly alert eyes landing on me. “You see? Her legs will open for anyone.”

I can’t help it—I cough out a laugh. It bursts from my tightly sealed, pouting lips.

Ruth’s hand flies through the air to cover her mouth, probably from reacting the same way I did.

“Get out. We’re turning you in.” An orderly builds up the courage to rise from his seat, causing a chain reaction with three more tossing their napkins onto their plates to meet the occasion. It is their duty to collect him.

Dessin’s hand swats downward in a brisk movement, tapping a knife at the handle and watching it flip upward through the air to land precisely in his palm. Without a moment of thought, he points it to the first orderly that spoke up.

“Sit down.” He lifts his chin. “I’m not quite finished.”

It’s the alpha in his tone—the crack of a whip—the roiling, unconquerable dominance.

The orderlies exchange defeated looks. They’ve all seen how he operates, and they know that fighting him is a losing battle.

“Besides, I did not come empty-handed.” He twirls his knife between his fingers, flipping it through the air like a performance. The men in the room lower themselves back into their seats, holding stoic expressions, as I’m certain they feel emasculated by one man showing up the lot of them.

“I brought favors for everyone, except—” He catches his knife and points it directly at Ruth. Oh no. “—You. I don’t know who you are.”

She stiffens beside me, her hands visibly shuddering over her silverware.

“This is Ruth,” I speak up, lifting my hand from my lap to cover hers.

Dessin follows my hand, watches it fold over hers, snaps back up to meet my pleading expression. Leave her out of this.

“Tomorrow is her first day.” Please.

He looks back at Ruth, studying her, catching her fearful body language to validate my words. He raises his chin in understanding. And with a synchronized sigh, Ruth and I both relax, but I keep my hand planted safely on hers.

“Let’s toast to Ruth,” he finally says, looking expectantly at everyone.

The conformists and orderlies lift their glasses slowly, cautiously, finishing off their champagne.

“Welcome to hell.” He winks at her. But I squeeze her hand tighter. Don’t drink it. Dessin turns back to the rest of the table. “I’ve been in the mood for murder as of late. I have an unorthodox thirst for it. It’s like an insect inside my brain readjusts the wires, and instead of thirsting for a glass of champagne, I crave the heat from fresh blood expelled from a collated artery to coat my hands and drip from my fingers.”

Someone drops their glass. That certainly took a turn.

“But I’m trying to be better, truly. Because I get to see that beautiful face every day, even though she can be unnaturally optimistic”—he points to me with his knife, smiles sadly—“and it can be mildly annoying. I’d rather not let her down.”

As if someone set me on fire, the heads of the room rotate, and the attention is solely on me. I don’t know what to do. Should I blink? Sigh? Keep my eyes plastered to my lap?

“That only leaves me with one option, correct? If those in this room continue to compromise my conformist with not-so-harmless pranks—I suppose my only course of action is to make a statement that is so enticingly extreme, it quells your thirst for Skylenna’s pain.”
There are nervous readjustments in seats, gasps, and fidgeting.

“Please, enjoy my dining favors.” He signals to the plate covers.

My body clenches—back pressed firmly into my seat. How far is he going to go?

The table takes their silver covers off of their plates, setting them to the side, then straining their necks to get a better look at what was under them.

From what I can see, they are photographs.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Belinda shrieks, shoving herself backward in her chair, away from the photos.

The rest of the table reacts similarly. Shocked expressions, sounds of bewilderment scraping from their throats.

Dessin’s eyes are dark, laser-focused, and as callous as a cold-blooded murderer. What’s on those photographs?

“You broke into our homes?!” the orderly that spoke up before shouts.

“Not recently,” Dessin says. “But I have been there many times in the last few months. You know, in case I needed to make a statement.”

And that’s when I see the conformist next to me tilt a photograph of what looks like an older woman in bed at night…

He’s been taking photographs from inside their house to scare them. I don’t know whether to be disturbed or impressed. He’s a volcano—inactive until something disturbs him, causing an explosion that destroys all in his wake.

“You’re doing all of this because you’re in love with her, aren’t you?!” the bold orderly barks, and I’m instantly on ice, captivated by a sudden urge to hear how Dessin responds.

Dessin tilts his head, lowering his eyes to the man with strawberry-blond hair and crooked teeth. “I’m starting to lose my temper with you, Ash,” he says quietly, dark eyes set ablaze. “And when I lose my temper, I tend to quench that thirst I was telling you all about. In fact, I’m imagining how far this flute glass will stretch down your esophagus. And don’t soon forget… I know where your sister sleeps at night.”

The room is frantic, the energy ricocheting off the walls, spewing from person to person. Dessin hushes them like children, softly and tenderly.

“Now you know, one slipup could trigger my temper. And that temper knows your family—in their most intimate, most vulnerable settings.”

In a series of groans and muffled whimpers, something like an explosion of gastrointestinal fireworks disgorges across the table, mouths gaping open, pouring out streams of blood and carbonation.

Ruth and I shriek, jumping out of our seats and backing into the china cabinet. We watch them vomit violently onto their plates, dribbling down their dresses. Meridei falls to the floor as she heaves like a cat gagging up a hairball. Belinda sobs between upchucks, and Ash lies on his side behind his chair, letting the excretions flow endlessly.

A lake of blood spreads across the hardwood oak floors, forming around the legs of the table and chairs.

They’re dying.

“What did you do?” I stare at Dessin, now at my side, in astonishment.

You killed them, didn’t you?

I can’t calm my muscles, they’re vibrating like a small tent in a sandstorm. Ruth clutches my arm for dear life as she gapes wide eyed at Dessin so close to both of us.

“It’s time to go now,” he commands, holding his hand out for me to take.

Even though I can’t fathom why I still trust him, after witnessing what I’m sure is a small presentation of what he is capable of, I slip my hand into his.

But as he tries to guide us out of the house, I’m frozen in place. Ruth isn’t moving. She’s in shock, paralyzed in place.

Dessin looks over my shoulder to level with Ruth. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have.” Thank you, Dessin. That will calm her down. I roll my eyes and nod my head at Ruth to let her know she can trust me if she’s not able to trust him.

Tears pool in her eyes as she nods back, stepping over a writhing orderly at her feet as we exit the house.