When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

"Not Until I Am Alive."

Myra

The movie flickered on the screen, spilling shadows and color across the living room. Ash was curled against Dan on the rug, the two of them tangled in their own little cocoon, whispering jokes between handfuls of popcorn.

Marcus sat on the couch above us, stretched out like he owned more than just the room. I sat on the rug, close enough that his hand could absentmindedly drift into my hair, his fingers brushing strands aside before resting at the back of my neck. It was light, almost thoughtless, but I knew better. Even when he wasn't aware of it, his hold was a claim.

I tried to focus on the movie. On Ash's laughter, on Dan's muttered commentary. But my mind wouldn't stop circling back to every sharp edge Marcus had shown lately.

Yesterday morning I had brought him his coffee, warm and careful, the way he liked it. I'd watched him take a sip, my chest tightening with that familiar need for his approval.

But he spat it out, the bitter splash echoing through the study like a slap.

"Did you even taste this before handing it to me?" His words cut through the air, sharp and cold.

"I—I'm sorry. I'll get you another," I stammered, already turning.

"Fuck it!" he snarled, hurling the mug at the floor. Porcelain exploded into shards, scattering at my feet. One piece skidded so close it grazed my ankle, and I stumbled back, my hands flying up to cover my ears.

I looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. He'd thrown it without thinking—or maybe knowing it would make me flinch. He slammed the table next, raking his hands through his hair in frustration.

Slowly, I crouched, gathering the shards with trembling fingers. They bit into my skin as though punishing me for failing him.

Placing the pieces carefully on the tray, I rose on unsteady legs. "I'll get you another one," I whispered

"I said fuck it! I don't need it. I don't need anything—when I can't get a single fucking thing right the first time!" he snapped, his fury cracking through the room like thunder.

I nodded quickly, retreating before he broke something else—before he broke me.

Still, I sent Mrs. Irene with another cup, thinking it would be safer that way.

But moments later, he called me back in, his voice venomous.

"You think you can hide behind her?" He was close to me. His eyes burned into mine. He fisted my hair making me wimper. "When I'm angry, it's you I want in front of me. Not her. Don't you ever fucking send someone else to take what's meant for you."

The words lodged inside me like glass splinters.

"Yes, Marcus, I understand. I'll remember" I whispered, lowering my eyes trying to losen his hold.

"Good," he said. "Remember that. Because I don't want your apologies, Red. I want you to remember who I am and who you are for me. To remember where you belong"

And I stood there, silent, the weight of resignation pressing into my bones—because he was right.

"Yes Marcus."

That memory still burned under my skin. And now, sitting beside him, I could feel the coil of his temper like a second heartbeat. He was steady tonight, too steady—like glass that could crack with the slightest pressure.

He had poured himself into the campaign, restless and relentless, ready for the elections. On the surface, he was sure. But I knew better. He was furious too—that he had to fight for something that should have been his by blood, by right. That he had to prove himself to people who didn't deserve to breathe his air.