Chapter 6: The Puppet Master
Chapter 6: The Puppet Master
The leather couch felt like ice against my back, everything hazy around the edges from the pills still coursing through my system. Adrian’s voice cut through the study like a blade.
“What do you mean she was asking questions?”
My pulse hammered against my throat, thoughts swimming slightly. This wasn’t the concerned husband who’d kissed my forehead an hour ago—this was something else entirely. Cold, calculating, dangerous.
“About what specifically?” The deadly calm in his tone made my skin crawl.
I heard expensive leather creak as he settled behind his desk like a king surveying his twisted domain.
“Lydia.” The name dropped like a stone into still water. “Should have expected this.”
My stomach clenched through the medication’s fog. The only person in this house who’d shown me genuine kindness was in trouble because of me.
“No, don’t approach her yet. I need to assess the situation first.” A pause loaded with menace. “She’s been useful too long to waste carelessly.”
The casual way he discussed Lydia like a piece of equipment sent ice through my veins.
“Her sister?” His voice sharpened with predatory interest. “Making inquiries? How inconvenient.”
I pressed deeper into the shadows, my drugged mind struggling to process the implications. What sister? What inquiries?
“Handle it the same way we handled the family’s financial difficulties.” His tone dropped to barely audible. “People become remarkably cooperative when properly motivated.”
The words hit like a physical blow, cutting through my chemical haze. My father’s crushing debts. The contract that forced this marriage. Had Adrian orchestrated it all?
“And the other matter?” Hunger crept into his voice, dark and eager. “Any progress?”
The conversation continued in fragments—cryptic references to facilities, treatments, timelines. Nothing concrete, but the underlying menace was crystal clear even through my medicated confusion: Adrian was involved in things far darker than a simple forced marriage.
When his chair creaked and footsteps approached the door, I pressed myself deeper behind the couch until they faded down the hallway.
“Calla? Are you awake, darling?”
That voice again—warm honey over steel. The perfect concerned husband, back for his evening performance.
By the time I reached our bedroom, I’d managed to compose my expression into the docile mask he expected, though the pills made maintaining it feel like swimming through honey. Adrian sprawled across the bed like he owned it—owned me—silver eyes tracking my movements with predatory focus.
“There you are.” His smile was devastating, and I hated how my pulse quickened despite everything. “Feeling better?”
“Much.” I settled beside him, hyperaware of the heat radiating from his body. “Though I had strange dreams.”
“Oh?” He turned onto his side with fluid grace, suddenly laser-focused. “What about?”
“Family.” I let uncertainty color my voice, the words feeling thick on my tongue. “I dreamed that Alaric had other brothers. Siblings I’d never met.”
Adrian went still as marble. “Dreams can be odd things. Grief does strange things to the mind.”
“It felt so real though.” I studied his face through my chemical haze, noting the tension around his eyes. “Did Alaric ever mention other family members? Brothers who might have died young?”
“Why would you think that?”
The question sounded casual, but something sharp lurked beneath it.
“No reason. Just… sometimes I feel like there are empty spaces in this house. People who should be here but aren’t.”
His hand found mine, fingers threading through mine with possessive gentleness. “Calla.” My name rolled off his tongue like silk wrapped around steel. “You’re thinking too much again.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.” He rolled over, pinning me beneath him with predatory grace. The solid weight of him should have been frightening. Instead, heat pooled low in my belly, and I despised myself for it. “Your mind creates problems where none exist.”
This close, I could see gold flecks scattered through those silver eyes, could smell his cologne mixed with something darker. He looked so much like Alaric—the same strong jaw, the same dark hair falling across his forehead. But where Alaric’s eyes had been warm blue-gray, Adrian’s were pure silver frost.
“I don’t want to create problems,” I whispered.
“I know you don’t.” His thumb traced my lower lip, and electricity shot straight through me. “That’s why I take such good care of you.”
The gesture was achingly familiar, so similar to something Alaric used to do that for a moment I forgot to breathe. My body remembered this touch, craved it, even as my mind recoiled.
“Adrian, I—”
“Shh.” He leaned down, breath warm against my ear. “You think too much, worry too much. Let me help you forget.”
His lips brushed the sensitive spot below my jaw, and heat raced through my veins. This was wrong—he wasn’t Alaric, would never be Alaric—but my medicated mind couldn’t maintain the distinction. My body responded like I’d been starved for contact.
“This isn’t…” I pushed weakly at his chest, but my hands betrayed me, fingers curling into his shirt.
“Isn’t what?” His mouth moved lower, finding the hollow of my throat. “Isn’t right? Isn’t what you want?”
No, it’s not what I want. But even as the thought formed, my pulse quickened and warmth spread through me. The pills made resistance feel pointless, made his attention feel necessary.
“Alaric,” I breathed without thinking.
Adrian went rigid above me. When he lifted his head, something dangerous flickered in those silver depths.
“I’m not Alaric.” His voice was deadly quiet.
The words hit like ice water. “I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You did mean it.” His grip tightened on my wrists, pinning them above my head. “You’re still thinking about him. Still wishing I was someone else.”
Fear twisted in my chest alongside something darker. “Adrian, please—”
“No.” He leaned closer, silver eyes boring into mine. “I am not my brother. I am not a replacement or consolation prize. I am your husband.”
The raw possessiveness in his voice should have terrified me. Instead, it sent heat spiraling through my core, and I hated myself for responding.
“I know who you are,” I said softly.
“Do you?” His free hand traced down my side, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through thin silk. “Because sometimes I think you’re still living in the past, comparing me to a ghost.”
The accusation stung because it was true. Every time he touched me, I thought of Alaric. Every kiss, every gentle gesture reminded me of what I’d lost. But lately, I found myself responding to Adrian himself—to his intensity, his complete focus on me, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
“You’re not him,” I admitted, voice barely audible.
“No.” His mouth curved in something that might have been a smile. “I’m not gentle like he was. I don’t worship from a distance. When I want something, I take it.”
His words sent an unwelcome thrill through me. The pills made everything feel distant and dreamlike, made his proximity feel dangerously natural.
“This is wrong,” I whispered.
“Why?” His hand cupped my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone. “Because you think you’re betraying his memory? He’s gone, Calla. You’re alive.”
The simple, brutal truth broke something inside me. A sob escaped my throat, and despite everything, I found myself leaning into his touch.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost tender. “It’s okay to let go. It’s okay to want this, to want me.”
And in that moment, with the pills softening all my sharp edges and his silver eyes holding mine with fierce intensity, I almost believed him.