The Puppetmaster

by Linnea May

  "You are now."

  He adds an affirmative nod to his words, as if it was that simple. He says I'm Lailah, so that's who I'll be?

  "I don't know who that is!" I protest. Luckily, my voice shows a little more vigor this time, camouflaging the terror that's clutching me in its icy hold. "I don't know who Lailah is, but it's not me."

  His smirk widens into a smile, no less dark but spiced with a friendliness that comes across condescending.

  "You are," he insists. "That's the name you'll learn to listen to from now o-"

  "No, that's not my name!" I interrupt. "My name is Malia, and I-"

  "I don't want to hear it!"

  I flinch when he charges at me, his hand finding my neck with such swiftness that it spawns a new wave of horror. His fingers close around my throat, almost encircling it entirely as he holds me in place. He's not applying enough pressure to cut off my breathing, but it still feels as if he's choking me. The threat alone is enough for me to stop breathing as I freeze within his touch. He leans down to me, moving his face so close to mine that we almost touch. Daunting menace flickers in his gray eyes. Now that he's so close to me, I notice the little, bright-colored specks. They reflect the light in a way that makes his eye color appear more golden than gray.

  "Now, you listen to me, little girl," he hisses. "I know you're confused, I know you're scared. That's fine. You fucking should be. But there's one thing I won't ever tolerate, and that's you yelling at me like a stubborn little bitch. Do you understand?"

  I want to respond, but my voice fails me, allowing for nothing more but a helpless croak as I stare back at him. I try to nod, as much as his grip allows.

  "Say it," he insists, loosening his grip on my throat. I feel oddly lost when he releases me, as if his intimidating movement granted me some sense of security.

  He juts his chin forward, beckoning me to answer him.

  "I-I-understand."

  My stuttered words are a lie. I don't understand anything. What am I doing here? Why is he calling me Lailah? And why does he insist on continuing to call me that even after I told him that there has been a mistake.

  Because that's obviously what happened here, right? Somehow I was mixed up with someone else who was supposed to be kidnapped, the daughter of a rich family, maybe? Ransom money, that's what he must be after. If he wanted to kill me, I'd be dead already, wouldn't I?

  My head is spinning, the questions circling in a wild cloud inside of my skull. A dull throbbing accompanies their uncontrolled dance, and it feels a lot like the aftermath of being hit against the head. Did he beat me unconscious? Was he the one who took me from my room?

  He locks me in place with his beautiful gray eyes as he slowly removes his hand from my throat.

  "No, you don't," he whispers. "You don't understand anything."

  Of course, I don't. But you threatened to choke me. What was I supposed to do but tell you what you wanted to hear?

  "Do you want money?" I ask. "Is that it? Ransom? Because I… I’m not rich, but I know someone who is and he-"

  "Shut up!"

  He raises his voice to a level that is scary enough to silence me right away. I glare at him, biting my lower lip while I wait for an explanation. But he just shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he lets out a deep sigh.

  "Look," he says, casting me a strained look. "There's a lot you need to learn. You'll need to listen, obey, and work hard. We don't have much time to get this right."

  "This?" I probe, tilting my head to the side. "What do you mean by this?"

  He narrows his eyes, pondering for a few moments before he answers.

  "Onyx."

  His response is weighted, offering a solemn taste of significance, as if the word held any meaning to me.

  I throw him a puzzled look. "Onyx? Like the gem stone? I don’t… get it."

  "You will soon enough," he says, crossing his arms in front of his strongly muscled chest. He sighs again, just as heavily as before. He looks stressed and tense, as if this was harder on him than it is on me.

  "All you need to know for now is that you're an integral part of this," he elaborates. His eyes once again find mine and his expression appears exerted. That piercing gaze is enough to send an ice cold blast trickling down my spine, and it only gets worse when he continues to speak, concluding his angst-inducing introduction.

  "You're our Onyx. And if you fail us, you’ll die."

  End of preview

  Who kidnapped Malia, and why? And who is that handsome but cruel stranger who just walked into her room? Continue reading this story in Captured (Black Onyx) right here – free in Kindle Unlimited!

  In the mood for a return to The Velvet Rooms? Just turn the page for a free preview of Blue Velvet – the love story of Melina, Alena's bartending friend! 

  Blue Velvet

  by Linnea May

  BLURB

  I'm the heir to an empire, but I left the army as a broken man. A dangerous man.

  I should stay clear of her. She's too fragile, too broken herself - and too beautiful to resist.

  Worst of all: She wants me to take her.

  But where she seeks solace, I seek sanity.

  The Velvet Rooms provide our sanctuary. A place of safety, bliss and unbridled play, untainted by the clamor of reality.

  Here, there is no sight.

  There is no sound.

  Only skin against skin.

  Testing. Claiming.

  Our fondness for the absence of sound and light is what binds us.

  But it is also the biggest danger lingering between us.

  Because the madness always finds me. Even in the darkness.

  And this time it may be too late to stop the beast from destroying everything.

  “And silence, like darkness, can be kind; it, too, is a language.”

  ― Hanif Kureishi, Intimacy and Midnight All Day: A Novel and Stories

  Prologue

  Melina

  The world darkens, and I sigh with relief.

  I've never felt safer, never felt more alive and more awake than I do right now. At this very moment, I'm no longer a bystander, watching as others live the life they were destined to lead.

  I have arrived.

  This is my place.

  This is where I belong.

  Despite my early reservations, the trust was there from the beginning—and so was the doubt.

  A lot has changed since the very first time we played, and a lot has stayed the same. We complete another, each of us holding the piece that makes the other person whole. Most of the pieces match the jagged edges left on our broken souls as they were shattered; sometimes in one brute impact, and sometimes in a steady and agonizing ascent while life wore us down. Me, especially.

  I took hit after hit, never knowing where I belonged, while life kept throwing obstacles at me. But that only increased my desire to find what'd been missing all along.

  Maybe I'm stupid for thinking that he may be it, that he may be the one to save me, to finally give my life meaning.

  But I so desperately want him to be.

  I know dismissing all the pieces that don't fit is not the smartest thing to do. It's easy to look away and hold on to the brilliant light of perfection that blinds me every time I see him, every time he touches me, every time a rapture of bliss overtakes my frail body, always under his command.

  But for now, it's all good. And I want to believe it will be good for a while longer. Maybe forever.

  Forever. Such a heavy word, holding so much promise and so much despair alike.

  His hands guide me—trailing along my shoulders, down my arms, along the side of my body—until he stops at my hips, his palms closing around the curves of my hip bones before he gently pushes me back. The back of my knees meets the edge of the bed, and my legs give in automatically. I sink down in an almost robotic motion; my back straightened while my shoulders are relaxed.

  His hands leave me, and for a few seconds, I'm
left to myself, hidden in dark silence. I can't see or hear him, but I can sense his proximity. I feel the warmth of his body shifting from one side to the other, and my face follows his motions on instinct despite my inability to see him.

  I'm not bound but still at his mercy.

  Naked and exposed.

  I willingly gave up two of my senses, surrendering my will to him, because I trust him to take the lead.

  We both appreciate the darkness just as much as the calm. Our fondness for the absence of sound and light is what ties us together. It's what makes us special.

  But it is also the biggest danger lingering between us.

  Chapter 1

  Rowan

  I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing here.

  With slow but deliberate steps, I walk through the curtain that frames the entrance. Thick velvet graces my shoulder as I enter the main guest room and am greeted with dim light and soft jazz music running in the background. The modern décor of damask wallpaper meets the antique tin ceiling, and accents of heavy velvet curtains frame the archways that lead to other areas of the club.

  Dwight wasn't lying when he said this club was all about class, kink, and exclusivity. I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for his personal referral. He insisted I come here, "To let off some steam," he said, adding an awkward wink. I never cared much for the guy, but he has been one of my father’s closest business associates for a very long time, and given the situation I find myself in right now, I can’t afford to let my feelings toward him get in the way.

  My eyes roam the interior, perusing the furniture and the décor, before my attention trails to the main attraction—the girls. Dressed in black and white, they move throughout the giant room with rarely seen elegance. Each one of them oozes sex and pleasure, but some do so in a much more obtrusive way than others. The black lingerie of the sinful devils leaves little to the imagination, inviting a man's touch and holding the promise to fulfill all his desires. The girls wearing all white, however, hold no such promise. Flirtatious conversation is all they will provide.

  But none of them manage to hold my attention for longer than a few moments. Their beauty is fleeting, and the allure too ominous to capture me. I can't get close to them.

  Hell, I shouldn't even be here. There's no point really.

  What the fuck am I doing here?

  The steady murmur mixing with the soothing background music drowns out my sigh. The club is crowded, but the atmosphere is just as relaxed and calm as I was promised. In fact, the level of noise is just right. Just right to accommodate, just right not to lose my broken mind. Just the right amount to handle because it doesn't challenge my fucked-up self.

  Still, I need a drink.

  Natural inclination makes me sway toward the bar to my left, and when I start walking toward it, my legs appear to move on their own account, not waiting for my head to question the decision. I dock on to the bar with an almost violent bump, my hands landing on the bar top as if I was holding on to a lifeline.

  I guess, in a way, I am. If anyone is watching me right now, they'll probably think I am already drunk, which couldn't be further from the truth. It's been days since my last drink, and I'll adamantly point that out to anyone who questions me about it.

  My self-absorbed mind comes to a rest when I'm approached by the figure working behind the bar. Call it prejudice, but I expect to be greeted and served by a young man; a bartender in a vest and bow tie who discreetly nods when I voice my request, then prepares my drink with skilled and elegant moves.

  I did not expect her.

  The delicate hands resting on the edge of the bar top belong to a girl as she leans forward to take my order. She barely looks old enough to indulge in a cocktail herself, tilting her head back as she fixates me with doe eyes just a shade lighter than the thick brown locks that frame her face. Her mane is pulled up into a ponytail, leaving a few curly strands dangle playfully on each side as she cocks her head.

  "What can I get for you, sir?"

  Her voice is deeper and more solid than I would have expected based on her youthful appearance. She's on the short side and slim, almost too skinny for my personal taste. Her petite frame doesn't help me to judge her age. She looks like a girl but sounds like a woman, the volume of her voice just high enough for me to detect her words. It's remarkable how much your focus shifts to such mundane details once your body threatens to fail you on something as basic as the ability to listen to a person speak.

  "A gin and tonic," I order, involuntarily sinking into one of the nearby high chairs. It was never my plan to linger at the bar, but it doesn't seem like such a bad idea now.

  She purses her lips, giving me the impression that my order displeases her, but then she turns around and steps away, her hands moving swiftly as she fills a glass with ice cubes. I watch mesmerized as she performs her magic. As young as she may look, she's definitely not doing this for the first time. The way she moves behind the bar, and the way she handles the heavy bottles filled with costly liquids, not even measuring the liquor as she pours my drink—none of this makes her look like a beginner.

  She notices me watching her; I can tell by the way her eyes flicker to the side, catching my gaze for a split second before her focus returns to the job at hand.

  "Gin and tonic," she announces as she places a black coaster on the bar top before setting the heavy glass down. "Enjoy."

  "Impressive," I comment, pausing to catch her gaze before I add, "Thank you."

  She regards me with a quick nod, accompanied by a coy smile.

  "Impressive how?" she inquires. "With all due respect, sir, it is a pretty basic recipe."

  I huff, shaking my head. "Yes but you displayed an admirable level of proficiency while preparing it."

  Her face lights up for a moment before the beam is overshadowed by insecurity. She is a beauty, but in a very different way compared to the other girls present in this club tonight. She's not dolled up the way they are. She’s dressed like a bartender with a black vest over a tight-fitting white blouse and even a miniature bow tie at her throat. It's endearing, to say the least.

  "I wouldn't be here if I didn't have the skills," she says, sounding slightly offended. She creases her eyebrows a little as she fixates her gaze on me, crossing her arms in front of her chest to enhance the stance.

  I raise my hand in a defensive manner, trying not to show how endearing I find her cute little display of defiance.

  "No offense," I say, throwing her an apologetic smile. "I'll be honest with you, though. I've never seen a female bartender, especially one at such a tender age."

  "Tender age?" she repeats, arching her eyebrows. "How old do you think I am?"

  With the way she carries herself right now, she gives off the vibe of a goddamn teenager, but I'm not crazy enough to tell her that.

  "You should take it as a compliment," I say. "You look young. Isn't that what women strive for?"

  She huffs, scanning the bar as if to check for additional customers, before returning her attention to me. The way she looks at me now holds a hint of conspiracy.

  "Not when they really are young," she says, lowering her voice almost to a level that makes it hard for me to understand. "Don't worry, I am old enough to pour you a drink but also young enough to feel the pressure of having to prove myself."

  She pauses, biting her lip before she adds, "Especially to men like you."

  "Men like me, huh," I repeat. I narrow my eyes, relishing the way she looks at me now. Defiant and sassy but laced with caution.

  "And what kind of man am I?" I want to know. Jutting my chin forward, I challenge her to give me a witty reply.

  She doesn't take long to come up with something to throw back at me.

  "Men who order gin and tonic in a place where most opt for a good single malt," she says. "Men who don't even ask for our gin selection when ordering but just accept whatever I place in front of them."

  She surprises me, and I'm afraid it shows on my face
. Did she really just say that?

  She laughs when she's met with the dumbfounded expression on my face.

  "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I didn't want to be rude, but—"

  "But you were rude," I cut her off. "And this is a place where girls get a good spanking for being rude."

  She shakes her head. "Not me. I'm just the bartender."

  My eyes follow her gaze as it trails across the bar, browsing the guest room.

  "If your hands ache to spank someone, you'll have to pick one of the ones dressed in black," she says, her voice lacking emotion. "The devil girls."

  She turns back to me, cocking her head to the side with her chin forward as if she's challenging me to do it. As if she wants me to leave the bar and mingle with the crowd of willing call girls who'll give themselves to me in a way she won't.

  Well, that's not how it works for me. Not anymore.

  "No thanks. I'm good," I say, holding her down with my gaze. She reciprocates my stare, but her eyelids twitch when I take a generous sip from my drink.

  "But tell me, what's so wrong with a good old gin and tonic?"

  The glass lands back on the coaster with a heavy clonk, adding urgency to my question and causing her to flinch as she feels pressured to reply. She takes a deep breath before she places her elbows on the bar and leans closer to me.

  "I'm not good with words," she says, "but I can show you."

  Thank you for reading!

  Want to know how this story between Melina and Rowan unfolds? Read Blue Velvet here – free in Kindle Unlimited!

  Also by Linnea May

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