Page 10 of Broken Doll

“The game where you do what I say, when I say, and you never question a goddamn word that comes out of my mouth” he says, not explaining, commanding. Each syllable lands like a hammer on glass. “You learn what I teach. You fuck up, I fix it. You disobey, I make sure you don’t do it again.” His eyes don’tleave mine, don’t soften—there’s no room for negotiation, no hint of give. “And if you prove a bad investment…I won’t waste time scrapping the project and starting new.”

A chill slides down my spine, hot and cold at once, prickling my skin, pooling low in my gut. I know this kind of man. I’ve fucked them—ridden them, broken them, left them panting.

The ones who own a room without trying, who don’t threaten because they don’t need to. Because theyknowthey’ll win, every time, no question.

But this one? For the first time in a long fucking time, I’m not sure I’m the most dangerous thing breathing here. That realization stings, sharp and bitter, and I hate it—hate him, hate this room, hate the way my pulse won’t settle.

I tilt my chin up, lips curling, voice edged with a dare. “Meaning?”

Killion doesn’t hesitate. “You die —and there won’t be enough of your DNA in one place to identify you.”

The way he says it—calm, effortless, like stating the weather—sends a dark, dangerous thrill curling through me, twisting in my belly.

Well, that about sums it up. No room for misunderstanding this motherfucker.

I smile wider, slow and deliberate, running my tongue along the inside of my teeth, tasting the challenge. “We’ll see about that.”

This time, he reacts. It’s subtle—a faint tension in his jaw, a flicker in those cold eyes, a shift in his stance like a coiled spring tightening. It’s not much, but it’s there, and that? That’s a win. A crack in the armor, a thread I can pull.

Then he turns, nods toward a side door—steel, unmarked, ominous. “Let’s begin.”

And just like that, I’m not Landry James anymore. Not the wife, the cheater, the thrill-chaser. I’m a tool, a weapon, a thing to be shaped—or shattered.

The room beyond is a concrete box—gray, bare, lit by a single overhead bulb that buzzes faintly, casting stark shadows. The air’s colder here, damp, smelling of rust and old sweat.

Killion doesn’t sit. He stands, arms crossed, filling the space like a storm cloud. “Sit,” he says, and I do—because I’m playing along, not because I’m scared. The chair’s cold, biting through my pants, and the metal creaks under me, sharp against the silence.

The woman shifts in her chair, finally looking up from her clipboard to study me with clinical precision. Her eyes are slate-gray, dead as winter, scanning me like I'm merchandise at auction—assessing muscle tone, posture, the way I carry tension in my shoulders.

She doesn't speak, just rises with mechanical efficiency and circles me, pen tapping against her thigh. When she reaches behind me, I flinch—just barely, a microtwitch—and her mouth curves, not quite a smile but something darker. She scribbles a note, the scratch of her pen like nails on my spine. "Reactive," she murmurs to Killion, not to me, like I'm a lab rat they're discussing. "Good reflexes. Heightened awareness."

She reaches out without warning, fingers pressing into my bicep, then my shoulder, then the soft hollow beneath my jaw where my pulse hammers traitorously. "Decent physical foundation," she concludes, returning to her chair. "But too much attitude. We'll need to strip that away first."

I swat at her with a glare. “Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl but she simply ignored me and shared a look with Killion as if to say,See? What a hot messbefore she returned to her seat to scribble more notes.

“Training starts now,” he says, voice flat. “You’re here to learn. To obey. To execute. No questions, no improvising, no fucking around. You’re not a person anymore—you’re an asset. My asset.” He steps closer, looming, and the air feels thinner, harder to breathe. “You’ll be taught to fight—hand-to-hand, knives, guns. You’ll learn to lie, to steal, to kill if I tell you to. You’ll do it clean, fast, and without blinking.”

My brain’s buzzing—fight? Kill? What the fuck?—but I keep my face blank, my hands steady on my thighs. “Yeah, I get it, let’s start already,” I said, testing the water.

His eyes narrow, a mean glint in his eyes even as he chuckled. “I’ll beat that smart-ass out of you, Landry James. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll move when I say, sleep when I say, fuck when I say—and thank me for the privilege. Every breath you take is mine now.”

The woman looks up, pen pausing, her gaze clinical, like she’s sizing up a slab of meat. “Discipline’s non-negotiable,” she says, voice clipped, accent sharp—Eastern European, maybe. “You’re taught once. You fail, you’re corrected. You disobey a direct order?” She sets the pen down, deliberate, the sound a softclackthat echoes. “First time, you’re restrained—hands, feet, whatever it takes—until you learn. Second time, we take a finger. Third time, you’re done. No mess, no burial. Just gone.”

“You really should put that on the brochure —it’s a real selling point,” I quip, refusing to be intimidated.

Killion straightens, arms dropping to his sides. “You’re not special. You’re not irreplaceable. You’re here because you fit—reckless, smart, no ties. But step out of line, and you’re ash. No warnings, no second chances past what she said. I don’t waste time on fuckups.”

My throat tightens, but I force a IDGAF grin, leaning back in the chair, crossing my legs slow and deliberate. “Sounds like a party.”

He doesn’t smile. “Stand.”

I do, the metal table legs scraping the concrete, the sound grating in the dead air. He steps around the table, close now, towering without effort. “First lesson: pain.” Before I can blink, his hand snaps out, gripping my wrist, twisting it behind my back in a single, fluid move. Pain flares—sharp, white-hot—shooting up my arm, locking my shoulder. I gasp, instinct kicking in, thrashing against him, but he’s a wall, unmovable.

“Fight it,” he says, voice calm, “and it gets worse.” He twists harder, and I bite my lip, tasting blood, refusing to cry out. “This is control. You don’t have it—I do. You’ll learn to take it, to use it, or you’ll break under it.” He releases me, sudden and sharp, and I stumble, catching myself on the table, breath ragged.

The woman scribbles something, not looking up. “Resilient,” she mutters. “Good.”

Killion steps back, eyes cold. “Everything from this point forward will be hell, but if you survive, you might be worth the price of your training. Don’t fucking disappoint me, Landry.”

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