Page 17 of Rogue Doll

I'm sprawled on my bed, staring at nothing, when my door swings open without warning. The hydraulic hiss sounds obscenely loud after days of near-silence.

Killion fills the frame like darkness personified—all hard angles and cold purpose, his solid blacks hugging a body built for efficient violence.

His face betrays nothing, but his eyes flicker over me with that clinical assessment that makes my skin crawl and my pulse quicken. I wish I could explain my physical reaction to the man but it’s one of those mysteries that I don’t have the time or the patience to unravel.

Maybe that’s on purpose.

"R&R is over," he says, voice stripped of emotion. "Get dressed."

I raise an eyebrow, not moving. "Good morning to you too, sunshine. Or is it evening? Hard to tell when you're locked in a concrete box with no windows."

His jaw tightens—that microscopic tell that says I'm pushing too far, too fast. The fluorescent light catches the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, highlighting it like a warning sign. "Ten minutes. Briefing room three."

He turns to leave, but hesitates. Something slips in his stance—a barely perceptible softening around the shoulders. "You holding up okay?" The question comes rough, reluctant, like he had to drag it across broken glass to get it out.

The unexpected concern throws me more than any threat could. I sit up, studying him for the angle, the catch, the trap hidden in four simple words.

"Peachy," I reply, voice dripping sarcasm. "Love being quarantined while someone who murdered my last fuck buddy might be gunning for me next. Really brings out my eyes."

He doesn't smile—Killion never smiles—but something almost human flickers across his face. "Volkov's not the type to leave loose ends. If he wanted you dead, you'd be dead already."

"Wow. You're incredible at pep talks. Ever consider a career in grief counseling?"

This time, I swear the corner of his mouth twitches. "Eight minutes," he says, and then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him with the finality of a judge's gavel.

I drag myself to the shower, letting scalding water pound away the stiffness of captivity. My skin turns angry red under the assault, steam billowing thick enough to obscure the surveillance camera mounted in the corner.

The institutional soap smells like nothing and everything at once—antiseptic and bland, designed to leave no trace scent that could compromise an operative in the field.

My mind races, churning possibilities like a slot machine on speed. Why now? What changed? Is this a new mission, or my execution? The water sluices down my body, carrying away three days of paranoia but none of the underlying dread.

Seven minutes and forty seconds later, I stride into briefing room three like I own the fucking place, hair still damp, dressed in the tactical blacks they provide—pants that hug every curve, a fitted long-sleeve that feels like second skin.

The fabric is some high-tech composite—moisture-wicking, temperature-regulating, subtly armored at vital points. Power move. Never let them see you sweat.

The room's already occupied. Killion stands at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, the overhead lighting casting harsh shadows across the planes of his face.

Sienna leans against the wall, sleek as a stiletto, expression unreadable. The scent of her perfume—something expensive with notes of jasmine and gunpowder—cuts through the room's sterile air.

And there's a third—someone I don't recognize. Older guy, silver at his temples, eyes like polished steel behind expensive glasses.

His suit costs more than most people's monthly rent, tailored within an inch of its life to his lean frame. He has the look of someone who orders deaths over breakfast while checking stock portfolios.

"Asset Nova, this is Director Harlow," Killion says, the formal introduction setting my teeth on edge.

Director. Fuck me. Big guns coming out to play.

"S'up?" I nod, keeping my tone neutral while mentally cataloging exits, weapons, variables. Three against one. Bad odds if this goes sideways. "Is this a good meeting or a bad one?"

Killion looked to Harlow as if to say,'See? I warned you she's a pain in the ass.' To me, he points to a chair. "Sit down."

I decide not to be argumentative and slowly sink into the fine leather chair because frankly, I'm a curious cat. The leather creaks under me, still cool against the backs of my thighs, expensive enough to make me wonder about black budget allocations.

"Impressive first operation," Harlow says, voice smooth as aged whiskey but twice as dangerous. His accent has the faintest trace of old Boston money, vowels stretched just enough to betray an education at schools with Latin mottos and legacy admissions. "Unfortunate complications aside."

Translation: Nice job not dying when your target got his brains painted across a hotel suite.

"Thanks," I reply, deliberately casual. "Always aim to please."

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