Page 9 of Broken Doll

Besides, I love showing off my tits. I’ll flash the motherfucking Pope on a Sunday just to cause a riot.

That’s who I am.

So, my response to whoever got the privilege of seeing me naked?You’re-fucking-welcome.

Next to the pathetic excuse for a wardrobe sat a tray of food that made airplane meals look like Michelin star cuisine. A hunk of bread that could double as a doorstop. Cheese so hard it could chip a tooth. And water in a plastic cup—not even the decency of a bottle.

Kill Bill vibes for sure. That scene where Uma's character trains with Pai Mei, surviving on rice and suffering while she learns to punch through wood? Yeah, that. Except I doubted Killion had any ancient wisdom to impart, just fresh ways to hurt.

I stretched, feeling yesterday's bruises bloom beneath my skin, little purple flowers marking where fingers had dug too deep. My mouth still tasted like chemical aftermath, tongue thick and unwilling.

"Breakfast of champions," I muttered, tearing off a piece of bread that fought back. I chewed slowly, deliberately, staring directly at where I was certain a camera was hidden. Let them watch. Let them see I wouldn't beg for a fucking croissant.

If this was Killion's idea of breaking me, he'd seriously underestimated my tolerance for bullshit. I'd lived on vodka and spite for three days in Ibiza. I'd survived my mother's cooking for sixteen years. This? This was amateur hour.

I pulled on the clothes, skin crawling as the rough fabric scraped against places used to silk and lace. The sweats hung low on my hips, but the tank clung like a second skin, my nipples visible through the thin cotton. Another power play. Make me feel exposed, vulnerable.

Two could play that game.

I stretched again, arms above my head, arching my back like a cat, letting whoever was watching get their money's worth.Then I smiled—all teeth, no warmth—and flipped off the empty room.

"Try harder, Killion," I said to the walls. "I've had hangovers more intimidating than this."

The door stayed shut. The silence stretched. And somewhere in that steel box, as I forced down another bite of that miserable excuse for food, I felt it—that twisted, sick little thrill that whispered:Bring it on.

About an hour later, the door opened, and a stone-faced cold fish of a woman gestured for me to follow. I wanted to quip, “I don’t come when I’m fingered,” but I could already tell, this woman doesn’t have a sense of humor, so I fall in line, if only because my curiosity is stronger than my good sense.

She took me to another door, opened it and pushed me through. “Rude,” I mutter, only to find Killion and another female sitting behind a metal desk bolted to the floor.

His clothes are simple—dark slacks, black boots polished to a dull sheen, a fitted long-sleeve shirt clinging to a body built for precision, for violence.

Muscle ripples beneath the fabric, not bulky but honed, every inch carved for a purpose I don’t want to name yet.

But it’s not his size that spikes my pulse, thudding hard against my throat. It’s the way he looks at me.

Not like a man looks at a woman—hungry, horny, amused. Not like a mark, a prize, or even a challenge. Like a problem he’s already solved.

A blueprint he’s memorized, every flaw and fracture laid bare before I’ve even opened my mouth. Like he knows what I’ll do before I do it, and he’s already three steps ahead, waiting for me to catch up.

I fucking hate that. Hate being predictable, hate the idea that he’s got me pinned before I’ve even swung.

My brain’s bouncing—did I miss something? A tell? A slip?—and it pisses me off, that itch I can’t scratch, that sense of beingseenwhen I’m the one who’s supposed to see first.

So, I do what I do best. I play.

I let my stance go loose, hips swaying just enough, like I don’t feel the temperature drop ten degrees in his shadow. Like I’m not standing in front of a man who could probably snap my neck with two fingers and not break a sweat.

I smile, slow and lazy, shifting my weight onto one hip—a deliberate fuck-you to his locked-down, stone-faced intensity. “So,” I drawl, voice dripping like honey over gravel, “are we doing this or what?”

Nothing. Not a blink, not a twitch, just that eerie, perfect stillness. His eyes don’t waver—blue pools, bottomless, boring into me—and the silence stretches, heavy, suffocating.

My brain’s already jumping—say something else, push harder, crack him—but then he moves.

A single, precise tilt of his head, barely perceptible, like I’m an ant under a magnifying glass and he’s deciding whether to burn me.

And when he speaks, his voice cuts like a blade against my skin—low, measured, cold as steel. “If you think you can play me, you’ll find that you don’t even know the rules of this game. Now, listen closely. I don’t repeat myself.”

The words drop between us, sharp and final, a guillotine slicing through the air. My brow lifts, more reflex than thought as I straightened. “All right, so what’s the game we’re playing then?”

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