Page 12 of Broken Doll

So I push, testing the water. “Who am I targeting?” I ask, twisting my head just enough to catch his gaze, fishing for something—anger, amusement, a crack I can pry open.

Nothing. His eyes are stone—flat, unreadable, a wall I can’t climb. “It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, voice cutting sharp. “All targets are the same at their core. Vulnerable to desire, susceptible to ego. Your job’s to exploit that—strip them down ‘til they’re raw, desperate, then take what you’re sent to acquire.”

His hand grazes my hip again, sliding lower, tracing the swell of my ass, and heat pools low in my belly—fuck, it’s involuntary, a traitor’s response.

His touch isn’t lust—it’s clinical, a scalpel dissecting me, peeling back layers to see what twitches underneath.

My skin tingles, adrenaline spiking, and I hate how it pulls at me, how my body doesn’t care that he’s a machine, not a man.

“Make me trust you,” he says, voice dark, steady. “Make me want you. Use what you’ve got—words, touch, vulnerability. Hook me, you win.”

I breathe deep, chest tight, shoving down the nerves clawing up my throat. “How’ll I know when I have?”

A barely perceptible smile flickers—barely there, gone fast. “When you’re setting the pace. Watch.”

Before I can blink, he’s on me—chest slamming against my back, hips pinning me to the wall, trapping me in a cage of muscle and heat. His breath ghosts my neck, hot and slow, and every nerve jolts awake, a live wire sparking under my skin. “Right now, I control everything,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear, voice rough as gravel. “Your breath. Your pulse. Your fear.”

My pulse hammers, heat flooding between my thighs, and I clench my teeth, fighting the shiver. He’s right—I’m caught, pinned, my body screaming yes while my brain scrambles for a foothold. “Shift the balance,” he says, mouth grazing my earlobe, a taunt wrapped in command. “Flip it.”

I get it. I soften, melting into him, hips shifting back, pressing against him—heat, need, a tease of surrender. I tilt my head, baring my throat, lips parting just enough, an invitation dripping with silk. His breath hitches—faint, a whisper of a slip—but I catch it, a trophy I tuck away.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and grudging. “Now take control.”

I spin fast, catching him off-guard, slipping free and shoving him back until he’s the one against the wall. My fingers twist into his shirt, yanking him close, lips hovering over his—close enough our breath tangles, hot and sharp. “Is this what you want?” I whisper, voice a breathy promise, eyes locked on his, daring him to break.

His jaw tightens, muscles flexing under my grip—a ripple of tension, a crack I can exploit. “Yes,” he says, voice strained, low. “Good. That’s how it’s done.”

Victory slams through me, a hot, wild rush—addictive, electric. I’ve got him, I think, a sick grin tugging my lips. “Now pull away,” he says, voice steadying. “Make me chase.”

I slip free, leaving him leaning into nothing, his balance off for a split second before that cool mask snaps back. It’s brief, but it’s enough—enough to wake the predator in me, licking its lips, hungry for more. I like this. Too much.

“Good,” he says, voice low, approving. “You’re learning.” Then it sharpens, a blade unsheathed. “But never lose sight of the objective. Sex isn’t pleasure—it’s a tool. Use it, discard it, move on. Distractions get you killed.”

A pang twists through me—sharp, quick, buried fast. I don’t want to feel that, don’t want to think about it. So I shift gears, probing again. “Who are you, Killion? What’s your deal—wife? Kids? Some sad little backstory that made you this?” My voice is light, teasing, but my eyes are sharp, searching for a flinch, a flicker.

Nothing. He steps back, arms crossing, face blank as steel. “Irrelevant.”

“Come on,” I press, leaning in, hips swaying, voice dropping to a purr. “Give me something. You’ve got me pinned here—literally. Least you can do is tell me who’s pulling my strings.”

“Stop fishing,” he says, voice flat, final. “You don’t need to know me. You need to obey me.”

I laugh, sharp and jagged, but it’s forced. “Obey’s a big word. What if I don’t? What if I want to know who I’m bleeding for?”

His eyes narrow, cold and unblinking. “You bleed for the job. That’s it. Push me again, and you’ll regret it.”

The threat’s quiet, but it lands heavy, a stone sinking in my gut. My brain’s racing—push harder? Back off?—but that sickpart of me, the part that thrives on winning, on cracking the uncrackable, lights up.

I step closer, chest brushing his, voice a velvet taunt. “Regret’s a strong word. What’s the worst you’d do—spank me? Lock me up? I’ve had worse from better.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just grabs my wrist, wrenching it behind me in a flash—pain searing up my arm, sharp and white-hot.

I gasp, instinct kicking in, but he’s iron, immovable. “You don’t get it,” he says, voice low, steady, a machine grinding gears. “I don’t play. I don’t bend. You’re a tool—my tool—and tools don’t talk back.” He releases me, shoving me back a step, and I stumble, catching myself, breath ragged.

I glare, rubbing my wrist, but he’s already turning away, shutting me out. “Again,” he says, nodding at the wall. “Position.”

I reset, trembling, not from fear but from the thrill—the challenge. He’s a wall, a hard-bodied, soulless killing machine, and nothing I say, no tease, no push, cracks him.

My usual tricks—smiles, hips, whispered promises—slide off him like water on steel. My brain’s a mess—why won’t he budge? What’s he made of?—and it hits me, cold and clear: I’m not the puppet master here.

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