Page 5 of Vicious Doll

The bed feels like heaven after everything—firm mattress, clean sheets. I sink into it, intending to stay alert, to plan my next move, to figure out if I'm making the biggest mistake of my life trusting Volkov even this far.

Instead, I'm asleep between one breath and the next.

I dream of fire and falling bodies. Of Killion's eyes as he handed me to the wolves. Of a woman I don’t recognize, screaming at me to run but there’s something preventing my feet from moving.

I wake gasping, sweat-soaked, to find Volkov beside the bed, hand on my shoulder.

"Nightmare," he says, statement not question. "Drink."

He offers water. I take it, gulping greedily, trying to shake off the dream's tendrils. The clock reads 3:17 AM. Beyond the window, nothing but darkness and the skeleton fingers of winter trees.

"Sorry," I mutter, suddenly aware of how I must look—wild-eyed, sweaty, vulnerable.

He gives a cold shrug, not moving from his position. "Nightmares are weapons. Brain dismantling itself. Makes you weak." His eyes flick over me, assessing the damage. "Control it or it controls you."

In the half-light, he looks exactly like what he is—a predator at rest. The stubble doesn't soften his jaw but darkens it like war paint. His scar pulls tight across his brow, a permanent scowl carved by someone's blade.

With his jacket gone and sleeves rolled, his forearms display a museum of violence—exit wounds, knife scars, burn marks. Nothing accidental. Each one a lesson that didn't kill him.

"For a professional killer, you're surprisingly full of shit," I rasp, throat raw from screams I don't remember.

"Professional killers are human too," he replies, taking the empty glass. "Despite what Killion taught you."

"Why do you hate him so much?" I ask. "Killion, I mean. It feels personal."

Something flickers across his face—an old pain, quickly masked. "We have history."

"What kind of history?"

His eyes find mine in the half-dark. "Kind written in blood and betrayal."

The answer should shut me down, but it does the opposite. In this liminal space between night and morning, between enemy and ally, I want to know more. Need to know more.

"Tell me," I press, shifting closer. "If we're working together, I deserve to know."

He's silent so long I think he won't answer. Then:

"Killion left me to die in the Budapest sewers."

He taps his side—calm, flat, like he’s reciting a grocery list.

"I crawled out on my own. Took three days."

I grab his arm before I can think better of it. "Show me."

For a second, his eyes go dead—a shark before it bites. I brace for pain, maybe a broken wrist.

But instead, he yanks his shirt open, buttons flying like shrapnel against the wall.

Okay.

Dramatic? Yes.

Fucking hot? Also yes.

His torso is a war zone—puckered bullet holes, knife slashes, burn marks blooming across muscle like he's beensystematically tortured by professionals. But the most brutal? An ugly starburst below his ribs where a hollow point expanded on impact.

“Killion did this?” I trace it, feeling his skin flinch under my touch.

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