Page 67 of Miserable Marionette

“He doesn’t fucking love them,” he spits. “That washed-up John Wayne fucker is either incredibly stupid or incredibly naïve.” I cant my head back to look at his face, his ocean eyes turbulent and frigid.

“Gid—"

“He doesn’t love them, Audrey. He hates them.”

“I mean, the police probably have those profiler people. They know—"

“Audrey!” he snaps, making me jerk in his arms. His hands tighten at that, punishing like he’s scared I’ll move away. I bring my hands to his chest, pushing deeper into him, making sure he knows I won’t. It does little to calm him. “They mean nothing to him.”

I just stare dumbly, my brows knitted together.

“Tell me you know that nobody would mean anything to him. They mean nothing. He’s not some lonely fucking creep.”

“I mean he’s a murderer who turns women into dolls, Gideon. That’s lonely creep behavior.”

He just stares at me, and god, if he doesn’t look a little… pleading. Like he really needs me to understand. My mouth pops open the moment realization sinks in. “Oh god, you worked on this case, didn’t you?”

He blinks for a moment, taking a deep breath and tucking me into his chest, his nose burying in my hair. “Yeah.”

“No wonder you got so upset. That must’ve been horrible. They’ll catch the sick bastard,” I assure him, pressing a kiss to his chest, making his palm pause where it was running through my hair. Wishing there weren’t layers of clothes separating my lips from his skin, even though Gideon looks great in a suit. “That’s why Altman was down here to talk about the Marionettist. Shit, no wonder you weren’t in any rush to go back,” I say the words casually, not trying to pry, but the idea of a serial killer targeting young women traveling around the United States seems scary, but not as scary as the idea of Gideon leaving me to help them find him. “Is there a problem with the case?”

“Just some washed-up detective desperate to make a name for himself before retirement and a grieving family being taken advantage of to push his flawed narrative.”

“I mean, you’re the doctor on the case, right? Like the crime scene guy?”

“Medical Examiner,” he clarifies like it explains everything, only elaborating after my continued silence. “I focus on the body evidence.”

“Oh, well. That seems straightforward.”

He scoffs at that. “It is until you start adding in other pay-to-play ME’s that are willing to interpret evidence differently.”

I open my mouth to respond, but suddenly I’m being hurled into his arms, making a shit-eating grin spread across my face.

His eyes are just as intense when they land on mine, but I don’t care. I keep smiling for the both of us as he carries me into his bedroom. “He may be sick, may be lonely, but those women… he doesn’t care about them. They’re tools, no different from the coloring pencils in your art box.”

I just nod because now my core is pressed against his hardening length, each step adding just enough friction to make me squirm.

“His loyalties… his dedication to his art is driven by something else. It’s not about them.” He angles his chin up, brushing his lips across mine in a featherlight kiss that sets my core on fire and sets flutterflies off in my stomach.

“He has a muse,” I supply, groaning as he lays me down on his bed, shifting over me, his hands everywhere.

“Yes, everything else… everything that isn’t her is just noise to him. Tools.” His mouth finds my peaked nipple through my T-shirt, teasing it.

A moan leaves my throat as I push into him. “I feel sorry for her too, then, his muse.”

He doesn’t respond, and soon enough my thoughts are far away as he wiggles my jeans down my thighs, his tongue tracing their descent. “Happy birthday, puppet.”

I giggle. “Is this my present?”

“One of many.”

I nearly cry when he takes his lips off me, bending forward, his hair tickling my cheek as he reaches under the bed. I’m lying there, panting in my T-shirt and underwear for a second before what he’s doing catches up with me. “Oh, ew, don’t get those tapes out right now. I-oh.”

My eyes widen at the bundle of fabric in his hands, the familiar colors and lace making water spring into my eyes. “Another dress for Krissy.”

“Much too big for Krissy.”

I scramble up, all but jerking it from his hands as I unsteadily get to my feet on top of his bed, holding the beautiful garment up to my chest, emotion clogging my throat. He chuckles, reaching out to steady me, his hands on my calves. “Oh, Gideon, it's beautiful,” I croak out, staring down at the layers of thick, luxurious light green fabric. The skirt is made up of the same fabric but piled with tiers of white lace. “My very own Krissy dress.”