Page 15 of Broken Doll

"Generous," I sneer, kicking off my shoes, making a show of it—casual, unbothered. "Does it come with room service? Cause I could kill for a medium-rare steak and a bottle of anything above 80 proof."

His gaze narrows, just a fraction, but it's there—a flicker of something in that granite face. Annoyance? Amusement? I can't tell, and it drives me fucking insane, this wall between us, the way he sees through me while I'm still tripping on my feet.

"Bathroom's through there," he says, ignoring the bait. "Shower. Sleep. Clean clothes in the dresser." He steps back, hand on the door. "Oh, and Landry?"

I raise an eyebrow, waiting.

"Tomorrow, you meet Sienna." His voice shifts, a new edge creeping in. "Don't fuck it up."

The door shuts before I can ask who the fuck Sienna is, the lock clicking with quiet finality. I stand there, alone, the silence pressing in from all sides, thick enough to choke on.

My first instinct's to trash the place—flip the mattress, smash the lamp, leave my mark on these sterile walls. It's what I'd do at home when Isaac pissed me off, when the walls closed in too tight, and I needed an escape hatch. But I'm too fucking tired, bones hollow, muscles screaming from Killion's torture session.

Instead, I stagger to the bathroom, flipping the switch. The light's too bright, shocking after the dim glow of the bedroom,and I wince, slamming my eyes shut. When I open them, I catch my reflection in the mirror and freeze.

Holy shit.

I barely recognize myself. My face is thinner, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, dark circles like bruises under my eyes. My hair's a rat's nest, tangled in knots, and my skin's pale, almost translucent, except for the flush of exertion staining my cheeks. I look wrecked. Feral. Like something that's been caged too long, starved into submission.

But my eyes—those are different. Harder, brighter, with a glint that wasn't there before. The eyes of a predator, not prey. When did that happen?

I strip, dropping the sweat-stiff clothes to the floor, and step into the shower. The water hits hot—scalding—and I don't adjust it, letting it burn, scrubbing until my skin's raw and pink, washing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering ghost of Killion's hands on my body. Steam billows, thick and choking, fogging the glass until I'm just a blurry silhouette, a smudge of color against white tile.

My mind drifts, water drumming against my skull, and I catch myself wondering about Sienna. Another handler? Why someone new? Was she the female version of Killion, all hard angles and zero sense of humor? Was she hot? The thought sends a sick thrill zipping through me, a rush I'm ashamed to crave.

When did this become the plan for my life?

Back in that club—Malvagio, with its red lights and pounding bass, Derek's laugh cutting through the haze, hands on my hips, lips on my neck—that was the plan. Chaos on my terms. A life where I controlled the damage, chose the wreckage, picked the battlefield.

Fuck, Malvagio seems like a lifetime ago. A fever dream of neon and sin.

Last time I was there—what, three weeks ago? Four?—I'd worn that black dress with the back cut so low you could see the dimples above my ass. The one Isaac thought I'd donated because "it wasn't appropriate for a dinner with his boss." Poor, clueless Isaac, who’d thought I was at a girls' weekend in Palm Springs while I was letting a stranger with a tongue piercing eat me out in the VIP lounge.

I can still feel it if I close my eyes—the bass thumping through the floor, vibrating up my legs, mixing with tequila and adrenaline in my veins. The press of bodies, slick with sweat and desire, everyone wanting something, everyone willing to pay for it one way or another.

Derek had been with that redhead—what was her name? Candi? Brandi? Something with an 'i' where a 'y' should be—while I'd found myself pinned against the wall by some tech bro with hungry eyes and clever fingers. He'd whispered filth in my ear, promises of what he'd do to me, how he'd make me beg, and I'd smiled, letting him think he was in control.

That was the game—let them think they're winning while you walk away with everything. The rush of power when their eyes glazed over, when they'd offer up anything—secrets, cash, keys to their penthouse—just for another taste. For the chance to possess something they never could.

I remember leaving the main floor, following Tech Bro to a private room where the music dulled to a distant heartbeat. His hands shaking as he closed the door, as he tried to act like he wasn't scared of what he'd unleashed. I'd pushed him onto the leather couch, straddled him, watched his eyes widen as I took what I wanted.

"Tell me something nobody knows about you," I'd whispered, nipping at his ear, and like they all did, he spilled—some bullshit about insider trading, about the wife who didn't understand him, about how he'd never felt this alive.

I'd let him think he was special. Let him think he'd found something real in that darkened room with its sticky floors and mirrored ceiling. And when I was done, when I'd used him up and wrung him dry, I'd walked away without a backward glance, his number already forgotten, his secrets filed away with all the others—useless currency in a game I played just to feel something.

Here’s the thing, I love secrets. There’s something about holding onto information that doesn’t belong to me that curls my toes.

God, I'd been so fucking bored. So desperate for a thrill that I'd risk everything—my marriage, my safety, my future—just to feel that spike of adrenaline when a stranger's hands closed around my throat, when the line between pleasure and danger blurred to nothing.

And now? Now I'm here, in this sterile box, with a man who could kill me with his bare hands, who sees through every mask I've ever worn, and I'm still chasing that same high. Still hungry for the edge, for the fall, for the moment when control slips and chaos reigns.

But this? This is something else. A chain I can't see, a leash I hadn't felt tightening until it was too late.

And the worst part? I don't hate it. Not completely.

I shut off the water, skin stinging from the heat, and lean against the tile. Isaac floats into my mind like unwanted sediment in expensive vodka.

Isaac. Fucking Isaac with his accounting degree and his perfectly ironed shirts. The man I promised forever to while mentally calculating how many shopping sprees his family connections would buy me.

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