Page 1 of Rogue Doll

The blade doesn't waver—cool metal against my silk-covered hip, a ticking bomb waiting to explode. My pulse hammers, blood rushing in my ears like a freight train, but outwardly, I don't flinch. Don't panic. Just let my smile widen, slow and dangerous as sunrise.

"My, my," I breathe, letting a thrill edge my voice, "aren't you full of surprises?"

Victor's eyes narrow, pupils dilated in the low light. The pressure of the blade increases—not enough to cut, just enough to promise it could. His cologne suddenly seems stronger, sharper, cloying against my skin like expensive poison. Sandalwood and something chemical underneath—the scent of wealth and corruption, of power gone rancid.

The jazz has faded to white noise, the bar's ambient chatter dissolving into a dull roar. All I can hear is my heartbeat and Victor's breathing—slightly elevated, slightly ragged. Not from fear, but from excitement. The sick fuck is getting off on this.

"Who sent you?" he asks, voice dropping to a whisper that feels like sandpaper against my neck. "FBI? Corporate espionage? One of my competitors?"

I laugh—a sound like breaking glass, bright and dangerous. My fingers trace the rim of my abandoned martini glass, nails clicking against crystal like a countdown. "Is this how you flirt with all the girls? Because I've gotta say, the knife is a bit much for a first date." I lean in closer, letting my breath ghost across his lips, close enough to taste the top-shelf whiskey lingering there. "Some women prefer dinner first."

His jaw tightens, tendons standing out like steel cables beneath designer-stubbled skin. One of his cufflinks catches the light—platinum and diamond, worth more than Isaac's car—as his grip on the knife flexes. "Cut the bullshit. I know a honey trap when I see one."

Fucking terrific. My first real op, and the target's already made me. Killion would be so proud. Or he'd snap my neck himself to save Victor the trouble. The air between us thickens, every atom charged with the promise of violence. The leather booth creaks as I shift, my thigh brushing his, the contact electric through silk and wool.

But here's the thing about guys like Victor. They don't get to where they are without being paranoid as fuck. Doesn't mean he knows exactly what I am—just that he suspects everyone. Probably sleeps with one eye open and a gun under his pillow. Changes his passwords hourly and has a bug sweep done on his office while he gets his weekly happy-ending massage.

Time to pivot.

"Put the knife away, Victor," I say, letting my voice drop an octave, all smoke and gravel and promise. The sensation of danger spreads through me like warm brandy, loosening my limbs, sharpening my focus. "You're ruining a perfectly good dress. Valentino doesn't come cheap."

I slide my hand up his thigh, slow and deliberate, feeling the muscle jump beneath my touch. My fingertips brush the outline of his rapidly hardening cock, and I can't help but smirk. Men—suspicious enough to pull a blade, stupid enough to still want to fuck the person they don't trust. The ultimate evolutionary defect: a brain hardwired to think with the wrong head when it matters most.

His breath hitches, the knife wavering slightly. In the dim light, a thin sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip. I can almost hear Killion's voice in my head:"Exploit the weakness. Find the crack. Slip in and break it wide open."

"If I were here to hurt you," I continue, fingers tracing his length through expensive wool, fabric so fine I can feel the heat of him through it, "you'd never see me coming. And I guarantee I wouldn't be this obvious."

I maintain eye contact, unblinking, letting him search for lies he won't find. I've already perfected the art of lying with my eyes wide open—a skill perfected on Isaac years before Killion ever got his hands on me.

Victor's eyes flicker—doubt warring with arousal, caution tangled with need. I can almost see the gears turning in that paranoid millionaire brain of his, weighing risk against reward. The knife presses harder for a fraction of a second, then eases, metal cooling through silk.

"Then what do you want?" he asks, voice rough, like gravel under tires.

"Same thing you do." I press my palm against him, feeling him throb beneath my touch. His pulse beats against my hand, rabbit-quick. "A night you won't forget. No strings, no complications. Just two consenting adults doing very, very unconsensual things to each other."

He doesn’t ask my “price” because men with money don’t fuck around with something as plebian as what something costs.The old adage, “if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it” is very real in this scenario.

The taste of power floods my mouth, metallic and sweet, better than any cocktail. This is the high I chase—the moment when control does an about-face, when the prey becomes the predator. When I go from target to trigger.

The knife presses harder for a split second, then retreats. Not gone, but no longer threatening to aerate my internal organs. Progress. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips, in my throat, in the hollow space between my legs. This is what living feels like—not Isaac's suburban purgatory with its beige walls and scheduled sex, but this: the precipice between victory and disaster, the razor's edge of adrenaline slicing through my veins.

A waiter passes, the scent of overpriced appetizers wafting past—truffle oil and seared meat and something herbal. Victor doesn't even glance up. His world has narrowed to just the two of us, to the electric circuit we've created in this dim corner.

"You're not on someone's payroll?" he asks, skepticism dripping from every syllable. His thumb traces idle circles on my wrist, like he's testing my pulse for lies.

"The only person paying me is me," I lie, smooth as silk. The lie tastes good—rich and dark, like the finest chocolate. "I’m highly selective about who I spend my time with." I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. The stubble on his jaw scratches my cheek, a delicious friction. My teeth graze his lobe, and I feel him shudder—a micro expression of weakness. "Consider yourself chosen."

His free hand closes around my wrist, tight enough to leave bruises. His thumb digs into the soft underside, right over my pulse point. Another test. Another line to cross. His fingers are dry, calloused in unexpected places—a man who still works with his hands sometimes, despite the empire and the minions. "Prove it," he growls.

The scent of him intensifies—whiskey and cologne and beneath it all, the unmistakable musk of arousal. Male pheromones, primal and raw. My body responds before my brain can intervene, a Pavlovian reaction to power and danger.

"Right here in the bar? Kinky." I smirk, holding his gaze. In the depths of his green eyes, I see the battle—desire fighting suspicion, hunger warring with survival instincts. "But I think what you need is confirmation that I'm exactly who I say I am." I take his knife hand in mine, guide it slowly to my inner thigh, where the silk parts in a high slit. The metal of the blade is a cold counterpoint to his hot fingers. "Feel free to search me. Thoroughly."

His fingers slide against my bare skin, callused and hot, trailing upward with brutal precision. The knife is pressed flat now, handle in his palm, blade against my flesh—a threat and a promise intertwined. The metal warms against my skin, a strange intimacy. His touch is clinical at first, searching for wires, for weapons, for proof of deception. But as his fingers reach the lace edge of my thong, something changes. The search becomes something else—something hungrier, darker.

Around us, the bar continues its sophisticated hum—crystal clinking, muted laughter, the distant moan of a saxophone. A world away from this moment of primal assessment.

"Nothing to find but me," I breathe, letting my legs part slightly, an invitation wrapped in a dare. The leather of the booth creaks beneath us, a whispered promise of friction.

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