Page 23 of Cut Her Strings (Fractured Puppets #1)

Chapter 22

Player 197

197

1 97 was about to jump in to win for his team in this horrid game but paused when he saw the number eleven illuminating the winning pit. His precious, fierce one was within his reach but had not made it in yet. Across the game, on the other side, the wall was lit up with the number twelve. This was it. There would be no more chances. His other teammates were behind him in a line holding out anyone else from passing but that wouldn’t last much longer.

He growled into the air. He would not let this game take her; he wasn’t done with her. He searched for the intelligent red-haired brother, 174, who had gotten them this far. 174 stood only a few feet from 197 and directly beside a sobbing woman.

“Help me!” 197 roared, a plan formed in his mind. If the Sponsors were going to keep messing with the rules, nothing said he couldn’t do this. He pointed to the woman who cradled herself on the ground, rocking back and forth and made a come-hither gesture. 174 didn’t seem to understand, but pushed the woman up so she was within 197’s reach all the same. 197 used his height and strength to secure his hold on the crying woman; he didn’t recognize or know her name, just her number; 17. She didn’t even attempt to escape him, she thought herself safe.

With a firm grip on 17’s wrist, he reached behind him, grabbing hold of his little fierce one. He slung his fierce one forward while simultaneously pulling 17 out of the winning pit. A cry escaped 17 as she rolled off the edge and into the first pit, falling onto the contestants that lay below. He paid no more attention and landed carefully behind his little fierce one with a thud.

He held his breath; did he go too far? Assume incorrectly?

A siren blared.

From his vantage point, he could just make out the remaining players, assumedly with teammates not in a pit, dropping to the ground dead . He breathed a sigh of relief when his partners remained standing. He angled his head downward and found 17 in the next pit, her eyes stared at the ceiling. Lifeless.

“How could you?!” his little fierce one began to pound on his body, jerking his attention to her. Her tiny fists were surprisingly bruising against his skin. “It was my time to go, I accepted it, I apologized to him, to her . It was my time,” she continued, ranting and pounding.

He wrenched her flush against him, even as she tore and bit at him, trying to escape. He hadn’t known for sure this would work, and the adrenaline rush from the assumption that he might have died still pumped through him. When she finally calmed down, he pulled back from her and crushed his lips to hers. The salt of her tears fed his soul, and he found himself not regretting 17’s death. He would continue to kill again and again for this woman in front of him. She fought his kiss until he swept his tongue past her lips and invaded her, imprinting into her. She let out a mewl as he consumed her. Finally, he knew he had to part, or he wouldn’t be able to.

He ignored the siren still blaring. He ignored the redhead’s angry gaze. He ignored 189’s lingering presence. He ignored the fresh smell of death. He focused solely on the woman before him. On her fierce arctic eyes, the jut of her nose, her raven hair, her soft curves. He knew from the first moment he saw her she would affect him. He hadn’t known to what extent, hadn’t known that she would embed herself so deeply into his soul. But here they were bonded over mutual trauma, and he promised then and there to whatever power may be. He would never let her go. Even if it meant deviating from the original plan.

The Host

The Host watched as the winners and their teammates were drugged and fell to the ground, unconscious. The guards made quick work of clearing out the winners first, then their teammates, and finally the corpses. He was doing his best to protect her. To protect them. He knew that woman they were allied with had been a biologist, he knew Maverick would connect the dots, and he knew 197 would find a workaround to keep her safe. What he hadn’t known was Ivan’s connection to Raven. The Host swore internally; he would need to recalculate his plans.

The Host refrained from making any signs of his inner distress. The last thing he needed was a visit from the Creators. They were surprisingly silent even when he slipped in the hint.

Ivan would be a problem, and the Host wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

The door across from him opened, and he startled. The last person he wanted to see entered. They walked forward until they stood before him.

“Oh, settle down; it’s just me,” the visitor joked.

The words had the opposite effect, and he stiffened his spine, straightening his back. He was sitting in the god-forsaken interview room in his usual spot on the leather chair. He hated this room more than any other place in this underground facility, but nothing compared to being in this person’s presence.

“You are proving to be quite the entertainment but stick to the fucking script.” The visitor stroked his face with one hand.

The Host didn’t even see the knife in their other hand until it was embedded into his leg, stabbing him.

He swallowed down the scream.

“We knew this year would be the most challenging for you since you arrived, but be the good little Host that we know you are and entertain the Sponsors and watch the contestants. And stop giving her,” the word was said with a fiery rage, “any more help. You do it again, and you won’t be the one receiving this punishment.“

They jerked the knife from the Host’s leg. The wound began to bleed profusely. Dark liquid rapidly seeped into his pants and dripped down to the floor below.

“And do be a dear and clean this mess up.” The visitor threw the knife to the floor and turned on their heel, exiting from whence they came.

The Host let out a shaky breath. He felt defeated, but even still, he held onto the hope that this was the year he would finally escape.