Page 6 of Vicious Doll

I took his silence as an affirmative. "So you both tried to kill each other. That's your big revelation? Seems like an occupational hazard in this gig.”

His hand catches my wrist, fingers digging into bone. "You understand nothing."

“I understand enough.”

Something snaps between us—some invisible wire holding back the inevitable. I grab his face, or he grabs my hair—doesn't matter who moves first. We collide like wrecking balls, all teeth and tongue and zero tenderness.

He tastes like nicotine and violence. I bite his lip hard enough that copper floods my mouth. He growls—an actual fucking animal growl—and slams me back against the headboard hard enough to crack plaster.

"This what you want?" he says, one hand crushing my windpipe, the other tearing at the shirt I'm wearing. "To fuck the monster?"

I claw at his chest, leaving red furrows that well with blood. "Better than fucking a liar."

The shirt disintegrates in his grip. He shoves me flat, face against the mattress, knee forcing my legs apart. I buck against him, not to escape but to make him work for it.

"Still fighting," he says, voice gone guttural. "Even now."

I twist, catch his jaw with my elbow. It's not enough to hurt him, just enough to make him angrier. "Always."

He flips me over, pins my wrists above my head with one hand. The other rips my underwear aside like tissue paper. Hiseyes are blown black, his breathing ragged. For a split second, he pauses—the last check before crossing a line.

"Do it," I hiss. "Or are you all talk, Volkov?"

Whatever restraint he has left snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. He slams into me without preamble, no gentleness, no preparation. The pain is bright and clarifying, a reminder that I'm still alive in a world where everything else has turned to ash.

"Yes," I gasp, not in pleasure but victory. Drawing out the beast. Making him as unhinged as I feel.

He sets a punishing pace, hips pistoning with mechanical precision. The headboard slams against the wall, cracks spider-webbing through decades-old plaster. I rake my nails down his back, leaving trails of blood that drip onto my stomach.

"Tell me," he growls, fingers tangled in my hair. "Killion. What did he offer you?"

"Go to hell," I gasp between brutal thrusts that drive the air from my lungs.

His teeth scrape my exposed throat, not a kiss but a threat. "Wrong answer." He slams harder, using pain as interrogation. "Everyone breaks. Matter of time."

"Fine," I snarl, matching his rhythm with savage pushback. "Purpose. He offered fucking purpose. Happy now?"

He flips me over with military efficiency, face grinding into the pillow, ass hoisted in the air like merchandise at auction. One hand clamps onto my hip, fingers digging into flesh hard enough that tomorrow's bruises are guaranteed. The other hand pushes my face deeper into the mattress until breathing becomes a luxury I have to fight for.

His cock drives deeper from this angle, battering into my cervix with each brutal thrust. The pain blurs with something that isn't quite pleasure—more like electricity short-circuitingmy nervous system. Each impact jolts my spine, drives the breath from my lungs in strangled gasps.

Sweat drips from his chest onto my back, hot and slick. The bed frame creaks dangerously beneath us, metal joints protesting as he uses my body like a punching bag with a pulse. His breath comes in animal grunts.

My knees slide wider on the sweat-soaked sheets, opening me to deeper violation. He takes the invitation, adjusting his angle to hit that spot inside that makes my vision fragment into white-hot static.

A sound I don't recognize tears from my throat—part scream, part sob, all surrender to a biological imperative I can't fight.

“Always the same lie,” Volkov's voice is sandpaper rough above me. “Always they fall for it.”

We're not fucking anymore. We're trying to break each other, to find the weak points, to prove something neither of us can name. The mattress springs screech in protest. Sweat makes our skin slip and catch in a sickening rhythm.

I reach between my legs, desperate for release, for oblivion, for anything to shut out the noise in my head. Volkov knocks my hand away, replaces it with his own. His fingers are brutal, precise, manipulating my body with the same cold efficiency he probably brings to dismantling bombs or breaking necks.

"Cum,” he orders, like it's a military command. "Now."

I want to tell him that I don’t cum on demand but my body betrays me in a humiliating detonation of pleasure. I scream into the pillow, the sound raw and animal. He follows immediately after, his whole body going rigid, a stream of Russian curses cutting the air like machine gun fire.

For one second, two, we're frozen —predator and prey, though I'm not sure which is which anymore. Then he pulls outand away, leaving me empty and aching in more ways than I can count.

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