Page 11 of Broken Doll

My arm throbs, my chest burns, and my brain’s a mess—run, fight, scream—but I straighten, meet his gaze, and grin through the tears. “Bring it.”

He nods, once, like he expected nothing less. “We will.”

Day blurs into night. Night bleeds back into day. Time’s a meaningless smear in this concrete hellhole—no windows, no clocks, just four steel walls boxing me in, fluorescent lights buzzing like hornets, burning white-hot holes in my vision.

My world’s shrunk to this: the ache in my bones, the sting of sweat in my eyes, and Killion—a ruthless shadow glued to my every move, breathing down my neck every second I’m awake.

His presence is a weight, a constant press, like gravity’s doubled and I’m the only one feeling it.

Training isn’t about strength or speed—not the way I thought it’d be. Sure, we spar—hand-to-hand until my knuckles bleed, knives flashing fast enough to nick skin, guns I dismantle and reassemble blindfolded until my fingers cramp.

But that’s just the warmup, the easy shit.

The real grind’s deeper, a blade twisting into parts of me I didn’t know could bleed. It’s about turning sex—my playground, my escape—into a weapon, cold and precise as a loaded barrel.

Killion circles me now, his boots thudding against the concrete floor, a slow, steady drumbeat that syncs with my pulse. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, pooling in the small of my back, my tank top plastered to my skin like a second, sodden hide.

Every muscle screams—legs shaking, arms trembling—but I hold position: hands braced on the frigid steel wall, back arched, ass out. Vulnerable. Exposed. Exactly how he wants me, every inch on display, every nerve raw and twitching.

The air’s damp, heavy with my own breath, the faint tang of metal, and something sharper—his control, thick as smoke.

“Control isn’t always about dominance,” he says, voice a low murmur, calm as a flatline. “It’s about knowing exactly what they want. Exactly how to use it against them.” His hand skims my hip, fingers brushing the bare skin above my waistband, and heat blooms under his touch—sharp, unwanted, slicing through the room’s chill. “Sex is your weapon, Landry. Your body’s the distraction. But the real goal?” His voice dips, a silken rasp against my ear, close enough I feel the heat of his breath. “Is control.”

“Sounds manipulative,” I shoot back, words breathy despite my effort to play it cool. My brain’s already spinning—control, yeah, I get it, I’ve fucked guys into begging—but there’s a hook here, a challenge I can’t resist.

“It is.” He pulls back, hand dropping, and the sudden absence floods me with cold air, prickling my skin. The overnight transformation from club vixen to government asset left gaps in my game. Turns out, what works on tech bros with daddy issues doesn't scratch the surface with Killion. "Again," he says, voice flat as week-old champagne.

I reset my stance, sweat dripping between my shoulder blades. Three hours in, and I've tried every trick in my arsenal. The hair flip that made billionaires stutter. The deliberate brushof skin that had celebrities begging. The low, breathy laugh that emptied wallets across Los Angeles.

Nothing. Not a fucking flicker.

I catch his eye as I arch my back, letting my tank ride up to expose the strip of skin above my waistband. A move that's scored me penthouse keys and black cards. "Is this what you like?" I purr, voice dripping honey and sex. "You can touch, you know. I don't bite... unless you're into that."

Killion's expression doesn't change—granite face, dead eyes. Clinical as a coroner. "Juvenile," he says, the word slicing through the air between us. "That might work on frat boys and C-suite alcoholics, but professionals will see right through it."

My cheeks burn, humiliation crawling up my spine like fire ants. "Then what exactly do you want?" I snap, patience fraying.

"I want you to think." He steps closer, not touching me but invading my space until the air feels thin. "Stop performing and start observing. Who am I? What drives me? What weaknesses have you identified?"

I stare at him, searching for something—anything—I can exploit. The usual tells are absent. No wedding ring. No nervous tics. No hungry eyes tracking my curves. He's a fucking black hole where desire should be.

"You don't have any," I mutter, frustration boiling over. "You're not human."

Something shifts in his eyes—not quite amusement, but close. "Wrong. Everyone has weaknesses. Even me. But you're not looking past the surface." He circles me, predator-slow. "You're used to men wanting to fuck you. That's easy. Child's play. But what about the ones who want something else?"

"Like what?"

"Power. Validation. To feel special. Understood." His voice drops lower. "To be seen."

The realization hits like a slap. I've been playing this all wrong. Killion doesn't want my body—he wants my mind. My full attention. The one thing I've never truly given anyone.

I straighten, letting the fake seduction drop away. Meet his gaze directly, really looking at him for the first time. "Show me," I say, no purr, no artifice. Just focus.

Something like approval flickers across his face. "Now we're getting somewhere."

I grit my teeth, jaw tight, and reset—muscles howling as I shift back into position, ass out, spine curved, hands splayed on the wall. He circles again, a shark scenting blood, his boots a relentless echo.

He’s overwhelming—six feet of hard muscle, deep blue eyes that don’t blink, a presence that sucks the oxygen out of the room. I hate it. Hate how he looms, how he sees everything.

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