Page 9 of Vicious Doll

"You're smarter than this," Killion continues, something almost like respect threading through his words. "He's using your emotions against you—your fear, your anger. Classic manipulation."

I adjust my grip on the SIG, mind racing, loyalties splintering. "Funny how everyone wants to tell me what I'm thinking instead of just giving me the fucking truth."

Volkov snorts, a sound like gravel under tires. "Truth is, your handler sold you out. Put you in apartment as bait. When Harlow's men came, Killion was supposed to delay extraction. Let you die. Tie up loose end."

"FSB psychological operations," Killion counters, voice dropping to that private tone he used during training, when it was just the two of us in steel rooms with blood on the floor. "That was Volkov's specialty before he went private. Turning assets by exploiting vulnerabilities. Ask yourself—how did heknow exactly what evidence would convince you? How did he predict exactly what would make you doubt me?"

For the first time since I met him, Killion's mask slips. Not much—just a hairline fracture in the granite facade—but enough to glimpse something human underneath. Something that might actually care whether I live or die.

The realization hits me like a punch to the sternum.

This man broke my body in the name of training, reshaped my mind, turned me into something that kills without hesitation. And now he's looking at me like I matter—not as a weapon, not as an asset, but as a person.

It's almost worse than the betrayal.

"If Killion values you so much," Volkov presses, "why did he send you alone to that apartment? Why was extraction team conveniently delayed?" Then to Killion, voice laced with old venom: "Tell her about Budapest. Tell her about agent you left bleeding in sewers. Tell her about Vahnya."

Vahyna. Who the fuck was that?

The name lands like a grenade between them. Killion's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes does—a shadow, a flinch so subtle I'd have missed it if I hadn't spent three months studying his every micro expression.

The air between them practically crackles with shared history, with blood spilled and trust shattered. I wonder, if they were once as in sync as Volkov and I were minutes ago, clearing that hallway like we'd trained together for years.

"I've made mistakes," Killion admits, the words clearly costing him. "Hard choices. But I have never sacrificed an asset without necessity. And I have never betrayed my own." The last words directed at Volkov with loaded meaning, revealing deeper wounds between them than just bullets and scars.

I stand perfectly still in the eye of this hurricane, gun steady despite the storm raging inside me. Both men watching me, waiting for my choice.

The building groans around us, damaged from the assault. Somewhere outside, sirens wail—this level of gunfire doesn't go unnoticed, even in whatever Eastern Bloc hellhole we're currently occupying.

Blood drips steadily from a cut above my eyebrow, tracking warm and sticky down my cheek. The coppery taste fills my mouth when I lick my lips. It centers me, reminds me what I am now.

Not a wife. Not a doll. A survivor.

"Time's up," Sienna calls from her position. "Secondary team two minutes out."

Killion extends his hand—not reaching for me, just offering. An invitation, not a demand.

"Come home, Nova. Whatever you've been told, whatever you believe happened—we can sort it out. Safely."

His eyes hold mine, and I see something there I've never seen before—not manipulation, not calculation. Something almost like concern.

Home. As if that concrete prison ever was one. As if I've ever had a real home beyond the temporary highs of danger and sex and walking the razor's edge between life and death.

It's the most human I've ever seen him, and that's what decides me.

Because the devil you know is still the devil.

I shift my weight, telegraphing compliance, watching Killion's shoulders relax infinitesimally. Then I swing the SIG toward him, not to hit but to force him back, and dive toward Volkov and his escape route.

The look on Killion's face in that split second of betrayal is almost beautiful—the perfect mask finally cracking to revealsomething raw underneath. Not anger, not hatred. Something more complex.

Gunfire erupts behind us as we crash through a hidden panel into a service corridor. The surprise on Killion's face before we disappear is almost worth the shitshow my life has become—not anger, not betrayal, but what might actually be respect.

Volkov moves like a shadow, leading us down cramped stairs that smell like piss and desperation. My thigh wound throbs with each step, but adrenaline keeps me moving, keeps me focused. Behind us, boots thunder in pursuit.

"Transport?" I gasp as we hit street level.

"Three blocks west. If we make it."

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