Page 16 of Vicious Doll

"Doesn't mean smart," Mikhail counters, but he makes no move to leave, his massive body angled toward me like a compass finding north.

"Smart died back in that apartment," I say, stepping closer to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his broad chest. "Smart stayed with Killion. This is about survival now. And people like us survive on adrenaline, violence, and skin against skin."

I reach up, my fingertips brushing the stubble on Mikhail's jaw. His skin is hot, almost feverish, the muscle beneath tensed like he's fighting his own response. "Am I wrong?"

His hand captures my wrist—not roughly, but with the implacable strength of someone who could snap bones without trying. For a second, I think he'll push me away. Instead, he tugs me closer, until I'm flush against him, feeling the thunderous beat of his heart through layers of fabric.

"Not wrong," he concedes, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates through my ribcage. "But complicated."

I glance at Volkov, who watches us with unreadable eyes, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. "Life's complicated," I tell him. "Death's simple. I prefer the messy option."

Volkov crushes out his cigarette, the gesture deliberate as a full stop at the end of a sentence. "Then we choose life," he says, rising from his chair with liquid grace. "For tonight."

His hand slides along my jawline, thumb brushing my lower lip in mirror of our first confrontation days ago. "But understand,kotyonok. There is no love here. Only momentary distraction from what we are."

"Love is for greeting cards and suicide notes," I reply, leaning into his touch. "I'm just looking for something real in a world built on lies."

Mikhail makes a sound deep in his chest—not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. His massive arm encircles my waist from behind, creating a cage of muscle and heat. I'm trapped between them now, Volkov's lean predator body before me, Mikhail's solid bulk behind, their contrasting physicalities creating perfect equilibrium.

"Then we give you real," Mikhail murmurs against my neck, his breath hot against my skin. "Nothing pretty. Nothing gentle."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," I say, tilting my head to give him better access, even as my hands find the buttons of Volkov's shirt.

We move toward the bedroom like a six-legged creature, a tangle of hands and mouths and competing desires. The vodka burns in my veins, loosening muscles and dissolving whatever boundaries might have existed.

Clothes fall away like discarded morals—Volkov's precision giving way to uncharacteristic urgency, Mikhail's controlled strength becoming something darker, hungrier.

The bedroom is spartan—nothing but a mattress on a metal frame, sheets gray with age but clean. The light from a single naked bulb casts harsh shadows, highlighting the topography of scars and muscle that map these men's violent histories.

Naked, they are studies in contrast. Volkov is all lean efficiency—whipcord muscle over blade-sharp bone, skin mapped with the precise scars of someone who's survived by skill rather than luck. The bullet wound from Killion puckers beneath his ribs, a starburst of angry tissue that never quite healed right.

Mikhail is a monument carved from flesh—broad-shouldered, chest thick with muscle and dark hair, thighs like tree trunks. Where Volkov's scars are precise, Mikhail's are brutal—jagged tears across his back, burn marks on his flank,what looks like shrapnel damage scattered across his left side. His cock matches the rest of him—thick, heavy, intimidating in its proportions.

I stand before them, tits out and pussy wet. They circle me with predatory focus, assessing weaknesses, points of entry, places to exploit—the same calculation they'd bring to a mission, now applied to flesh and desire.

I don't want the fake shit," I say, meeting their eyes as adrenaline drums through my veins. "No gentle bullshit. I'm not made of glass."

Mikhail's laugh rumbles like distant thunder. "We see you clearly," he says, those bear-paw hands circling my waist, lifting me like I'm hollow-boned. "Cut from same cloth. Damaged goods who damages back."

He deposits me on the bed like I weigh nothing, the mattress creaking in protest beneath us. Volkov follows, movements fluid as mercury, his eyes never leaving mine as he positions himself behind me. I'm caged between them again—Mikhail's broad chest before me, Volkov's harder angles at my back.

What follows isn't sex so much as consumption—teeth and tongues and grasping hands, choreographed violence channeled into something almost like pleasure. Mikhail kisses like he's trying to devour me, all teeth and urgent hunger, while Volkov's mouth traces the vertebrae of my spine with scientific precision, identifying each nerve cluster, each sweet spot that makes me arch and gasp.

Their hands map me like territory to be conquered—Mikhail's grip bruising my hips, Volkov's fingers tangling in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. The pain blurs with pleasure until I can't distinguish between them, my body responding to both with the same electric current.

"Tell me,kotyonok," Volkov murmurs against my ear, his accent thicker with arousal, "did Killion fuck you too? Make you his in every way?"

The question lands like a slap, shocking in its directness. "No," I gasp as Mikhail's teeth find my nipple, the sharp edge of pain sending lightning down my spine. "Not like that."

"But you wanted," Volkov presses, hand sliding between my legs, finding me already dripping. "I see how you look at him. With hate, yes, but something else."

I start to deny it, but Mikhail chooses that moment to drop to his knees, spreading my thighs with those massive hands, his mouth finding my center with devastating accuracy. The denial dissolves into a strangled moan.

"Don't lie," Volkov continues, two fingers sliding inside me from behind while Mikhail's tongue works magic from the front. “I’ll know if you lie.”

The dual sensation short-circuits my brain, pleasure building like a gathering storm. "Fine," I pant, hips rocking between them. "I wanted. Happy now?"

Volkov's laugh is soft and dangerous against my neck. "Thought so. We all want what destroys us."

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