Page 8 of Vicious Doll

"How do you know their?—"

The window explodes inward in a shower of glass and splinters. We both drop, combat instinct overriding everything else. Bullets punch through drywall, tracking a pattern that would have ventilated our vital organs if we'd been half a second slower.

"Questions later," Volkov grunts, sliding a second firearm across the floor to me. SIG Sauer, compact but deadly. My hand wraps around the grip like it's greeting an old friend.

Three months ago, I was a woman who fucked strangers in club bathrooms for a thrill. Now I'm a weapon with tits, as comfortable with a gun as I used to be with a cocktail glass. The metamorphosis should frighten me, but instead it feels like coming home—like I've finally found the skin I was always meant to wear.

We move in tandem toward the door, the awkward post-coital tension replaced by the cleaner adrenaline of survival. My brain slips into combat mode—the one thing Killion taughtme that I'm actually grateful for. Everything narrows to exits, angles, threats.

The first operative comes through the bedroom door like he's been launched—wearing all black, night vision, weapon leading. I don't think. Don't hesitate. My bullet catches him center mass, dropping him before he clears the threshold. The recoil travels up my arm, familiar as a lover's touch.

His blood paints the doorframe in an arterial spray, surprisingly bright against the dingy wallpaper. Some small part of me recognizes I should be horrified—I've just killed someone who might have been a colleague, might have eaten at the same cafeteria table, might have nodded at me in hallways.

But that part is buried under layers of survival instinct and the cold, mechanical precision Killion drilled into me.

Volkov is already moving, drawing fire away from me as we execute a textbook crossfire pattern. It's terrifying how in sync we are, like we've been killing together for years instead of fucking for hours.

The hallway becomes a killing ground. Two more operatives down—one mine, one Volkov's. The smell of cordite and blood fills the narrow space, acrid and metallic. My ears ring from gunfire in confined spaces, but through the high-pitched whine, I catch familiar tactical communications.

"Subject located. Resistance encountered. Four down. Request backup."

Cold precision. Dollhouse protocols. My people.

Or are they?

Were they ever?

We clear the main living area, moving toward Volkov's preplanned exit—because of course this paranoid bastard has one—when I see her. Sienna. Crouched at the far end of the hall, coordinating the assault with hand signals I recognize because she taught them to me.

Her sleek form is unmistakable even in tactical gear—the predator's grace, the absolute economy of movement. The woman who molded me like clay, who taught me to use my body as a weapon and my sexuality as a skeleton key. Sienna, who once made me cum with just her fingers while explaining exactly how to destroy a man's will with pleasure.

Our eyes lock across twenty feet of bullet-chewed hallway. For a split second, something flashes across her face—recognition, regret, determination. A history of intimate violations disguised as training, a bond forged in the strange alchemy of transformation.

Then the moment shatters as a new player enters the game.

Killion materializes from the smoke and debris like a demon stepping through the gates of hell. Even in combat gear, he moves with that lethal grace that's always made me think of big cats—mountain lions and panthers, predators who kill with elegant economy.

"Nova!"

His voice cuts through the chaos, steady and certain. The use of my handle purposeful. He doesn't raise his weapon—doesn't need to with four operatives flanking him, all with rifles trained on us. Actually, no.

On Volkov.

None of them are aiming at me.

That realization hits like a splash of ice water. I'm still valuable. Still an asset worth retrieving. Or eliminating personally.

Killion's eyes find mine, holding them with that penetrating stare that always made me feel like he was reading my thoughts directly from my brain stem. The same eyes that watched me break under his training, that assessed my pain with clinical detachment, that saw every weakness and exploited it with surgical precision.

"Whatever he told you…it's a lie," he says, and something in his voice shifts—not soft, Killion is never soft—but the razor edge dulls just enough to show the man beneath the handler. This isn't the training room Killion, this is something else, something almost... concerned.

"He's got the receipts, Killion," I shoot back, daring him to refute the evidence. "You played me."

My finger tightens on the trigger, not enough to fire, just enough to feel the resistance. Three months of training, of breaking and rebuilding, of becoming what he needed—all potentially built on lies. The thought makes something primal and violent twist in my chest.

"What has Volkov actually proven? Documents? Files?" He takes a careful step forward, ignoring Volkov's weapon trained on his chest. "These can be manufactured."

"Stay where you are," Volkov warns, but Killion keeps those winter-cold eyes locked on mine.

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