Page 4 of Vicious Doll

Look, I’m not exactly lining up to be martyred on Killion’s cross, but swallowing the idea that he’s the bad guy? That one sticks in my throat.

Or maybe this was all Volkov’s attempt to pit me against Killion?

"So what now?" I ask. The chessboard reshaping itself with each new revelation. "We team up like some fucked-up buddy comedy? Hunt down Harlow together? You wear the bad cop hat, I'll bring the donuts? And what about Killion? What if he’s looking for me?”

“Killion is not looking for you,” Volkov says, stubbing out his cigarette with precision that borders on ritual, “You are loose end that he no longer has to snip. Forget Killion. Help me find Harlow and his network, or I end your journey right here and now.”

“Those are shitty options,” I mutter. Working with a stranger who killed my last target and knows too much about me, or doing the dirt dance in a foreign country.

He shrugs, a fluid roll of shoulders beneath expensive fabric that seems at odds in the drab surroundings. "Life is full of bad choices. Trick is picking one you can live with. Or through."

I study him—the coiled tension beneath his casual posture, the calculated distance he maintains, the way his eyes never stop assessing, cataloging, recording. He's everything Killion trained me to fear and hunt. Everything I should be running from.

But if he's telling the truth...

"I need proof," I say finally, crossing my arms over my chest, suddenly too aware of my near-nakedness, my vulnerability in this strange place with this dangerous man. "Real proof. Notjust files that could be doctored. Not just stories anyone could fabricate."

"Fair." He rises, extending a hand to help me up. I ignore it, standing on my own despite the wave of dizziness that nearly sends me face-first into his chest. Pride is all I have left. I'll break my nose on the floor before I'll take his hand. "Come. We eat, we talk. I show you proof no one can fake."

For the next hour, he lays out what he knows—Harlow's network, his contacts, his probable escape routes. The man is methodical, I'll give him that. His intelligence is comprehensive, his analysis surgical.

I feel the needle nudging in the opposite direction. What if Volkov is telling the truth and Killion was using me to get to Harlow? And what about Sienna? Was she in on the ruse, too?

As the afternoon stretches into evening, the dynamics shift. The room grows smaller, charged with something beyond the tactical discussion. I'm acutely aware of his eyes on me when I'm not looking, of the predatory grace in every movement, of the careful distance he maintains—not from fear, but calculation.

Look, I’ve always had a thing for the bad boy. It’s not a huge stretch of the imagination to realize that Kidnapper Comrade is starting to turn my crank a bit.

Besides, there’s just something feral about him lurking beneath the surface that I find super hot, even if I’m pretty sure he would slit my throat the second I wasn’t useful to him.

When he offers vodka, I accept. The liquor burns clean and sharp, warming me from inside as night falls beyond the windows. I still don't know where we are—somewhere in Eastern Europe, judging by the architecture and the brief glimpse of Cyrillic on a document on his desk. A safe house, but one used regularly, with personal touches that suggest Volkov comes here often.

Which meant, I’m a long way from home. It’s not like I can just catch a bus back to HQ to grill Killion for being a duplicitous prick.

"You should rest," he says eventually, noticing my fatigue. "Tomorrow will be difficult day."

"I'm fine," I insist, even as exhaustion pulls at my edges. The ketamine has mostly worn off, leaving me with the bone-deep weariness of too much adrenaline and too little sleep.

"You are swaying in chair," he observes dryly. "Stubborn, but not useful."

I glare, but he's right. I can barely keep my eyes open. "Fine. But I need clothes. And my own room."

"Clothes, yes. Own room?" He shakes his head. "Building has only one bedroom with proper security. You stay there."

"With you?" The question comes out sharper than intended.

His eyes glitter with something like amusement. "Concerned for your virtue,kotyonok? After Victor Reese and so many others? Iv’e seen you fuck.”

Heat flares in my cheeks—anger, not embarrassment. "I fuck who I choose, when I choose. Not because I'm cornered in some Eastern Bloc safe house with a known killer."

"Good policy," he says, unfazed. "I also only fuck those who choose me. Makes for more satisfying encounter."

He stands, stretching like a big cat, all lean muscle and coiled power. "You take bed. I take chair. Professional courtesy."

Points for irony, acting like the gentleman when he literally dragged me across the country in a drugged stupor just to coerce me into working with him.

Yeah, real courteous, but whatever —I’m too tired to bitch.

I return to the bedroom, find a t-shirt and sweatpants laid out—both too big, both clean. I change quickly, hyper-aware of the door between rooms, of Volkov on the other side.

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