Page 2 of Vicious Doll

"Smart girl," he says, voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. He crushes his cigarette in an ashtray—crystal, incongruously elegant in this decaying room—before immediately lighting another with practiced efficiency.

I gestured toward his cigarette. “Careful, those are going to kill you someday.”

He chuckles, the flame from his antique Zippo briefly illuminates the planes of his face, casting dramatic shadows that highlight cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, jaw darkened with precise stubble that's been cultivated rather than neglected, a scar bisecting his left eyebrow like a question mark missing its dot. “Not likely,” he says with a shrug and he’s probably right. There’s a reason you never see old spies. The retirement plan is a bullet.

Handsome in that ruthless, Eastern European way that suggests he knows exactly how many ways to kill a man with a shoelace and has had occasion to use at least three of them. The kind of face that belongs on propaganda posters or movie villains—striking enough to remember, controlled enough to fear.

"But you are asking wrong question," he continues, exhaling smoke through nostrils like some dragon taking measure of a knight. "Question is not why I keep you alive. Question is why Director Harlow wanted you dead."

My laugh comes out harsh, brittle, scraping my throat raw. "What can I say? Sometimes I rub people the wrong way."

The understatement of the century. I've spent my life as sandpaper on other people's soft spots—Isaac's suburban dreams, men's ego-wrapped lust, now agency directors with God complexes. If there's a line to cross, I'll fucking dance over it while giving the middle finger to whoever drew it.

Volkov shakes his head, standing with the liquid grace of a predator who knows exactly how much energy each movement requires. Nothing wasted. Nothing excessive. Just pure function wrapped in expensive fabric.

He moves to the bed, and I tense, calculating odds and angles, but he only sits on its edge, far enough to be non-threatening, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive with notes of pine and some underlying spice I can't identify.

"Harlow wanted you dead before that," he says, voice dropping lower, intimate as a confession or a threat. He doesn't lean in—doesn't need to. His presence fills the space between us, heavy as lead, sharp as a blade. "Before Victor Reese. Before you were ever sent to that apartment. Why do you think you were chosen as bait, Nova? Or should I call you Landry?"

The sound of my real name on his lips sends ice water cascading down my spine, flash-freezing every vertebra. Only a handful of people know both my identities.

"How do you?—"

"I know everything about you." His eyes don't leave mine as he takes another drag, the cigarette's ember reflecting tiny points of fire in his pupils. The smoke hangs between us. "Landry Elizabeth James. Thirty years old. Married to accountant Isaac, who thinks you are on extended girls' trip because he is too stupid or too willfully blind to see what sits across from him at breakfast table."

He taps ash into his palm—a strangely fastidious gesture in this decaying room—before continuing. "Former fixture at sex club Malvagio. Regular partner: Derek Klein, who was left in alley the night of your extraction and now seeing therapist for nightmares. Recruited by Killion three months ago after... what was phrase in your file? 'Demonstrated aptitude for extended deception and sexual manipulation.'"

Each fact lands like a slap, precise and stinging. He knows me—not just the file details but the little things, the personal things, the dots that connect to form the constellation of my fucked-up life choices.

He leans closer, and I fight the urge to recoil. His proximity carries no sexual threat—somehow that's worse. Like I'm a specimen under glass, a problem to be solved rather than a bodyto be used. I know how to handle men who want me. I have no fucking clue what to do with one who sees through me.

"I know you think you are special asset," he continues, voice almost gentle now, which somehow cuts deeper than cruelty would. "But you were chosen for exactly one reason: you are hot enough to get the job done but ultimately, expendable."

The words land like body blows, each one finding soft, vulnerable tissue beneath my armor. Ribs, kidneys, solar plexus. Places that don't show bruises but bleed internally.

"Bullshit," I spit, but a worm of doubt crawls through my gut, burrowing deeper with each passing second. The safehouse op. The convenience of my selection. Killion's odd warning not to trust anyone, not even him. "I'm one of their best. I learn fast and I get results.”

My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. Three months is nothing in an organization like the Dollhouse. I was a baby, a newcomer, no matter how quickly I adapted or how well I performed.

Volkov's smile doesn't reach his eyes. It stops at his cheekbones, a mechanical movement of facial muscles that mimics human emotion without containing any. "You got results because you were set up to succeed. Victor Reese was already compromised. Already monitored. Killion needed convincing bait for Harlow trap. Someone good enough to seem legitimate but new enough to be sacrificial."

He leans back slightly, giving me space to process, to drown in the implications. "You were burned asset before you ever began. Walking corpse from moment you signed contract."

The words sink into my psyche like poison, spreading tendrils of doubt through every memory, every mission, every moment since Killion dragged me from my old life into his shadow world. Was any of it real? Was I ever valued, or just convenient cannon fodder with good tits and a talent for lying?

"Prove it," I challenge, shoving doubt aside with the same stubborn denial that's kept me functioning through every catastrophic life choice. "If Killion used me—prove it."

Volkov reaches into his jacket—moving slowly enough that I don't flinch, another calculated courtesy—and produces a slim tablet. He swipes through files with the efficiency of someone who knows exactly what he's looking for, then turns it toward me without fully surrendering it. Close enough to see, not close enough to grab.

Photos. Documents. Audio transcripts. Evidence of an operation stretching back years. Harlow selling secrets—not to Russia or China or any expected adversary, but to a private intelligence firm with tentacles in every major government. Plausible deniability through corporate buffers. Money laundering through offshore accounts and crypto.

Worse, communications between an unknown name and Killion. Plans for the Reese operation. My name, circled in red. Phrases like "acceptable collateral" and "containment protocol" jumping out from the text like neon signs pointing to my grave.

"This could all be fabricated," I say, but my voice lacks conviction, the words hollow as a promise from a politician's lips. Digital evidence is the easiest to fake, but the sheer volume, the specificity, the consistency across formats—if it's fake, it's a masterpiece of deception.

"Could be," Volkov agrees mildly, retrieving the tablet. His fingers move across the screen in practiced swipes, muscle memory for whatever security protocols he's established. "But isn't."

I push away from him, needing distance, needing space to process. The shirt—his shirt, I realize with fresh discomfort—slides against my bare skin, a constant reminder of vulnerability.

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