Page 7 of Vicious Doll

No condom. No protection.

As long as Volkov isn’t crawling with some kind of gross STD, getting raw-dogged is fine — all the dolls are implanted with birth control so I’m not worried about getting knocked up.

But disease is something else. That would be the icing on this fucked up cake.

I roll over, staring at the ceiling. My body feels used, broken, alive in a way it hasn't since Killion recruited me. Volkov sits on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, blood from my nails tracing crimson streaks down his back.

The room looks like a crime scene. Sheets torn and lamp shattered on the floor. Plaster dust covering everything like dirty snow. My thighs are already bruising, lip split, throat raw from screaming or his hand or both.

Volkov rises, a lean-mean fucking machine, utterly unself-conscious in his nakedness. His body is a battlefield—old scars, fresh wounds, all worn with the same indifference. “You fuck like wild animal,” he said, a note of approval in his voice. “Is good to release tension before job.”

I do feel more relaxed.

The flame from his lighter illuminates his face—all sharp angles and hollow eyes. He offers me a cigarette. I take it, let him light it, inhale poison to chase away the taste of him in my mouth.

"This doesn't change anything," I say, exhaling smoke. "I still don't trust you."

"Good." He doesn't bother sitting, just stands there smoking, his spent cock glistening with my pussy juices, watching me with those predator eyes. "Trust is luxury we cannot afford."

"What happens now?" I ask, not bothering to cover myself. What's the point? He's already seen, touched, tasted everything.

"Now we finish mission," he says simply. “Together, will find Harlow.”

"And then?"

"Then we kill him." No hesitation, no qualifiers. Just simple, cold-blooded intent. "Slowly, if time permits."

I should be horrified by the casual way he discusses torture and execution. Instead, I find myself nodding. Maybe I’m buying time. Maybe I’m switching teams. Not sure yet. “I need to shower," I say, standing, legs unsteady beneath me. Not from emotion. Just physics. The laws of action and reaction played out on bruised flesh.

"Through there," he gestures to another hidden door. "Don't think of running. No place to go but wolves."

In the bathroom—cracked tiles, rusted pipes, mirror spotted with age—I examine myself. Bruises bloom like ink spills across my skin. Bite marks on my neck. Fingerprints around my throat. Eyes too bright, too alive.

I barely recognize myself. Not Landry the bored housewife. Not Nova the perfect Doll. Someone new, someone forged in blood and betrayal and the animal thing that just happened in that bed.

The water's barely lukewarm, but I stand under it anyway, watching pink swirls circle the drain—his blood, my blood, impossible to separate. My mind replays Volkov's scars, Killion's betrayal, the total destruction of life as I know it.

I'm so lost in thought I don't hear him enter until the shower curtain rips aside. He's naked, but this time there's a Glock in his hand.

"Get down," he orders, voice flat as a battlefield execution. "We have company."

The first rule of gunfights? Don't be naked when they start.

Volkov tosses clothes at me while grabbing gear from a hidden compartment beneath the bed. The same bed where, thirty minutes ago, he was buried inside me, making animal sounds against my neck. Now we're doing the combat version of the morning-after shuffle.

"Fucking Killion," Volkov confirms grimly, checking the magazine on a matte-black Glock with the casual efficiency of someone who's fired it more times than they've brushed their teeth. "I know his extraction formation like own heartbeat."

I want to crow, "I told you he'd come for me" but that sounds like some pathetic damsel waiting to be rescued and I'm definitely not that girl, so I remain silent as I yank on pants.

No underwear. No time. My thigh wound burns as the fabric scrapes against it, but pain is just background noise now. The t-shirt follows, my skin still damp from the shower, making the cotton cling like a second skin.

"How many?" I ask, scanning the room for anything resembling a weapon. Volkov tosses me a knife—blade balanced for throwing, handle wrapped in black grip. Not ideal for a gunfight, but better than fingernails and attitude.

"Six-man team, standard Dollhouse extraction protocol." His face is all business now, no trace of the animal that was growling against my skin minutes ago. "Two snipers, four ground. Sienna will be coordinating."

The mention of her name twists something in my gut. Sienna, who trained me, who shaped me, who never quite felt like the enemy even when everyone else did. The woman who taught me how to use pleasure, how to read a target's desires before they knew them themselves. The closest thing to a friend I had in that concrete hell.

Now she's hunting me.

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