Page 4 of Broken Doll (Dirty Doll Ops #1)

D ay blurs into night.

Night bleeds back into day.

Time’s a meaningless smear in this concrete hellhole—no windows, no clocks, just four steel walls boxing me in, fluorescent lights buzzing like hornets, burning white-hot holes in my vision.

My world’s shrunk to this: the ache in my bones, the sting of sweat in my eyes, and Killion—a ruthless shadow glued to my every move, breathing down my neck every second I’m awake.

His presence is a weight, a constant press, like gravity’s doubled and I’m the only one feeling it.

Training isn’t about strength or speed—not the way I thought it’d be.

Sure, we spar—hand-to-hand until my knuckles bleed, knives flashing fast enough to nick skin, guns I dismantle and reassemble blindfolded until my fingers cramp.

But that’s just the warmup, the easy shit.

The real grind’s deeper, a blade twisting into parts of me I didn’t know could bleed.

It’s about turning sex—my playground, my escape—into a weapon, cold and precise as a loaded barrel.

Killion circles me now, his boots thudding against the concrete floor, a slow, steady drumbeat that syncs with my pulse.

Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, pooling in the small of my back, my tank top plastered to my skin like a second, sodden hide.

Every muscle screams—legs shaking, arms trembling—but I hold position: hands braced on the frigid steel wall, back arched, ass out.

Vulnerable. Exposed.

Exactly how he wants me, every inch on display, every nerve raw and twitching.

The air’s damp, heavy with my own breath, the faint tang of metal, and something sharper—his control, thick as smoke.

“Control isn’t always about dominance,” he says, voice a low murmur, calm as a flatline.

“It’s about knowing exactly what they want. Exactly how to use it against them.” His hand skims my hip, fingers brushing the bare skin above my waistband, and heat blooms under his touch—sharp, unwanted, slicing through the room’s chill.

“Sex is your weapon, Landry. Your body’s the distraction. But the real goal?” His voice dips, a silken rasp against my ear, close enough I feel the heat of his breath.

“Is control.”

“Sounds manipulative,” I shoot back, words breathy despite my effort to play it cool.

My brain’s already spinning—control, yeah, I get it, I’ve fucked guys into begging—but there’s a hook here, a challenge I can’t resist.

“It is.” He pulls back, hand dropping, and the sudden absence floods me with cold air, prickling my skin.

The overnight transformation from club vixen to government asset left gaps in my game.

Turns out, what works on tech bros with daddy issues doesn't scratch the surface with Killion. "Again," he says, voice flat as week-old champagne.

I reset my stance, sweat dripping between my shoulder blades. Three hours in, and I've tried every trick in my arsenal.

The hair flip that made billionaires stutter.

The deliberate brush of skin that had celebrities begging.

The low, breathy laugh that emptied wallets across Los Angeles.

Nothing. Not a fucking flicker.

I catch his eye as I arch my back, letting my tank ride up to expose the strip of skin above my waistband.

A move that's scored me penthouse keys and black cards. "Is this what you like?" I purr, voice dripping honey and sex. "You can touch, you know. I don't bite... unless you're into that."

Killion's expression doesn't change—granite face, dead eyes. Clinical as a coroner. "Juvenile," he says, the word slicing through the air between us. "That might work on frat boys and C-suite alcoholics, but professionals will see right through it."

My cheeks burn, humiliation crawling up my spine like fire ants. "Then what exactly do you want?" I snap, patience fraying.

"I want you to think." He steps closer, not touching me but invading my space until the air feels thin. "Stop performing and start observing. Who am I? What drives me? What weaknesses have you identified?"

I stare at him, searching for something—anything—I can exploit. The usual tells are absent. No wedding ring. No nervous tics. No hungry eyes tracking my curves. He's a fucking black hole where desire should be.

"You don't have any," I mutter, frustration boiling over. "You're not human."

Something shifts in his eyes—not quite amusement, but close.

"Wrong. Everyone has weaknesses. Even me. But you're not looking past the surface." He circles me, predator-slow. "You're used to men wanting to fuck you. That's easy. Child's play. But what about the ones who want something else?"

"Like what?"

"Power. Validation. To feel special. Understood." His voice drops lower.

"To be seen."

The realization hits like a slap.

I've been playing this all wrong. Killion doesn't want my body—he wants my mind.

My full attention. The one thing I've never truly given anyone.

I straighten, letting the fake seduction drop away. Meet his gaze directly, really looking at him for the first time. "Show me," I say, no purr, no artifice. Just focus.

Something like approval flickers across his face. "Now we're getting somewhere."

I grit my teeth, jaw tight, and reset—muscles howling as I shift back into position, ass out, spine curved, hands splayed on the wall. He circles again, a shark scenting blood, his boots a relentless echo.

He’s overwhelming—six feet of hard muscle, deep blue eyes that don’t blink, a presence that sucks the oxygen out of the room. I hate it. Hate how he looms, how he sees everything.

So I push, testing the water. “Who am I targeting?” I ask, twisting my head just enough to catch his gaze, fishing for something—anger, amusement, a crack I can pry open.

Nothing. His eyes are stone—flat, unreadable, a wall I can’t climb. “It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, voice cutting sharp. “All targets are the same at their core. Vulnerable to desire, susceptible to ego. Your job’s to exploit that—strip them down ‘til they’re raw, desperate, then take what you’re sent to acquire.”

His hand grazes my hip again, sliding lower, tracing the swell of my ass, and heat pools low in my belly—fuck, it’s involuntary, a traitor’s response.

His touch isn’t lust—it’s clinical, a scalpel dissecting me, peeling back layers to see what twitches underneath.

My skin tingles, adrenaline spiking, and I hate how it pulls at me, how my body doesn’t care that he’s a machine, not a man.

“Make me trust you,” he says, voice dark, steady. “Make me want you. Use what you’ve got—words, touch, vulnerability. Hook me, you win.”

I breathe deep, chest tight, shoving down the nerves clawing up my throat. “How’ll I know when I have?”

A barely perceptible smile flickers—barely there, gone fast. “When you’re setting the pace. Watch.”

Before I can blink, he’s on me—chest slamming against my back, hips pinning me to the wall, trapping me in a cage of muscle and heat. His breath ghosts my neck, hot and slow, and every nerve jolts awake, a live wire sparking under my skin. “Right now, I control everything,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear, voice rough as gravel. “Your breath. Your pulse. Your fear.”

My pulse hammers, heat flooding between my thighs, and I clench my teeth, fighting the shiver. He’s right—I’m caught, pinned, my body screaming yes while my brain scrambles for a foothold. “Shift the balance,” he says, mouth grazing my earlobe, a taunt wrapped in command. “Flip it.”

I get it. I soften, melting into him, hips shifting back, pressing against him—heat, need, a tease of surrender. I tilt my head, baring my throat, lips parting just enough, an invitation dripping with silk. His breath hitches—faint, a whisper of a slip—but I catch it, a trophy I tuck away.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and grudging. “Now take control.”

I spin fast, catching him off-guard, slipping free and shoving him back until he’s the one against the wall. My fingers twist into his shirt, yanking him close, lips hovering over his—close enough our breath tangles, hot and sharp. “Is this what you want?” I whisper, voice a breathy promise, eyes locked on his, daring him to break.

His jaw tightens, muscles flexing under my grip—a ripple of tension, a crack I can exploit. “Yes,” he says, voice strained, low. “Good. That’s how it’s done.”

Victory slams through me, a hot, wild rush—addictive, electric. I’ve got him, I think, a sick grin tugging my lips. “Now pull away,” he says, voice steadying. “Make me chase.”

I slip free, leaving him leaning into nothing, his balance off for a split second before that cool mask snaps back. It’s brief, but it’s enough—enough to wake the predator in me, licking its lips, hungry for more. I like this. Too much.

“Good,” he says, voice low, approving. “You’re learning.” Then it sharpens, a blade unsheathed. “But never lose sight of the objective. Sex isn’t pleasure—it’s a tool. Use it, discard it, move on. Distractions get you killed.”

A pang twists through me—sharp, quick, buried fast. I don’t want to feel that, don’t want to think about it. So I shift gears, probing again. “Who are you, Killion? What’s your deal—wife? Kids? Some sad little backstory that made you this?” My voice is light, teasing, but my eyes are sharp, searching for a flinch, a flicker.

Nothing. He steps back, arms crossing, face blank as steel. “Irrelevant.”

“Come on,” I press, leaning in, hips swaying, voice dropping to a purr. “Give me something. You’ve got me pinned here—literally. Least you can do is tell me who’s pulling my strings.”

“Stop fishing,” he says, voice flat, final. “You don’t need to know me. You need to obey me.”

I laugh, sharp and jagged, but it’s forced. “Obey’s a big word. What if I don’t? What if I want to know who I’m bleeding for?”

His eyes narrow, cold and unblinking. “You bleed for the job. That’s it. Push me again, and you’ll regret it.”

The threat’s quiet, but it lands heavy, a stone sinking in my gut. My brain’s racing—push harder? Back off?—but that sick part of me, the part that thrives on winning, on cracking the uncrackable, lights up.

I step closer, chest brushing his, voice a velvet taunt. “Regret’s a strong word. What’s the worst you’d do—spank me? Lock me up? I’ve had worse from better.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just grabs my wrist, wrenching it behind me in a flash—pain searing up my arm, sharp and white-hot.

I gasp, instinct kicking in, but he’s iron, immovable. “You don’t get it,” he says, voice low, steady, a machine grinding gears. “I don’t play. I don’t bend. You’re a tool—my tool—and tools don’t talk back.” He releases me, shoving me back a step, and I stumble, catching myself, breath ragged.

I glare, rubbing my wrist, but he’s already turning away, shutting me out. “Again,” he says, nodding at the wall. “Position.”

I reset, trembling, not from fear but from the thrill—the challenge. He’s a wall, a hard-bodied, soulless killing machine, and nothing I say, no tease, no push, cracks him.

My usual tricks—smiles, hips, whispered promises—slide off him like water on steel. My brain’s a mess—why won’t he budge? What’s he made of?—and it hits me, cold and clear: I’m not the puppet master here.

For the first time, I’m the one being strung along, and I’ve got a fuck-ton to learn.

The training drags on—hours of drills, scenarios, his voice a relentless drone of orders and corrections. He doesn’t touch me again, but his eyes never leave me—tracking every shiver, every twitch, stripping me bare in ways I can’t fight.

My body’s raw, muscles screaming, skin slick with sweat, lungs burning, but beneath it, there’s a fire—restless, hungry, sick with the need to win him over, even as he proves I can’t.

Finally, when my legs buckle and I think I’ll collapse, he steps back, nodding once, curt and cold. “Enough.”

I slump against the wall, sweat soaking my hair, dripping into my eyes, chest heaving. My body’s a wreck—nerves frayed, every inch throbbing—but there’s a buzz under it, hot and twisted, a satisfaction I don’t want to name.

“You’re ready,” he says, voice neutral, eyes assessing.

I shove damp hair off my forehead, glaring through the haze. “For what?”

“For the field.” He holds my gaze, unyielding. “Real targets. Real stakes.”

“You still haven’t told me who I’m working for,” I snap, voice rough, pushing one last time.

“You’re working for me,” he says, steel in every word. “That’s all you need.”

I straighten, legs shaking but spine stiff, and try one more jab. “And if I want out?”

His expression hardens, eyes narrowing to slits. “You don’t.”

The words sink deep, heavy as lead, locking into place. He turns, strides to the door, pausing just once to glance back, eyes dark and cold. “You did well tonight. Rest. Tomorrow, you level up.”

The door slams, a metallic clang that rings in my skull, leaving me alone with the echoes of his voice and the hum of the lights. What happens tomorrow? My heart kicks, a wild thud against my ribs, and it’s not fear—not even close. It’s excitement, sharp and sick, a drug I can’t quit.

The mess hall—if you could call it that—is underground like everything else in this concrete maze. Institutional lighting buzzes overhead, casting everyone in a sickly pallor that makes the food look even more unappetizing.

I'm at a corner table, picking at mystery meat and what might generously be called potatoes, when I notice her.

She enters silently, a ghost in tactical black, moving with liquid grace. Early thirties, maybe. Asian, with a sleek bob that frames cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. But it's her eyes that catch me—flat obsidian pools that scan the room with mechanical precision. Cataloging exits, threats, weaknesses.

"That's Yumiko," a voice says beside me.

I turn to find a man sliding onto the bench across from me. Tall, lean, with the kind of face that would be handsome if it wasn't so hollow.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes, which are a startling blue against his dark skin. "Viper-Six asset. Been in the field five years."

"And you are?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

“Halloran. Extraction specialist." He pushes his tray aside, leaning in. "You're the new one. Killion's pet project."

I bristle at 'pet project,' but keep my face blank. "Word travels fast."

"In places like this? It's currency." He nods toward Yumiko, who's now sitting alone, back to the wall. "She's what success looks like, if you're wondering. Three confirmed kills. Seventeen major extractions. Fluent in six languages."

My eyes drift back to her. She eats with mechanical precision, no pleasure, no waste. A perfect machine.

"And the failures?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Halloran’s smile turns grim. "You don't see them. They don't come back."

As if sensing our attention, Yumiko looks up. Our eyes meet across the room, and something passes between us—recognition, maybe. A shared understanding of what we are. What we're becoming.

She nods, almost imperceptibly, before returning to her meal.

"She was like you once," Halloran says, voice dropping lower. "Civilian. Had a life. Now she's..." He trails off, but I hear the unspoken words: Not human anymore.

"How many of us are there?" I ask.

"Assets? Dozens. But the ones like you—the specialized ones?" He shrugs. "Few enough to count on one hand. Most don't make it through Killion's training."

Before I can press further, the door opens again. A man enters, older than the rest, moving with a limp he tries to hide. His face is a roadmap of scars, one eye milky white and dead. The room temperature drops ten degrees.

"Nikolai," Halloran whispers, tension radiating from him like heat. "Former Spectre-Three. Field accident in Sydney left him... compromised. Now he trains the hand-to-hand combat program."

“He looks like a polar bear chewed him up and spit him back out,” I quip.

“You better learn real quick not to judge a book by its cover around here,” Halloran warns. “Best way to get your ass handed to you.”

I don’t buy it. I shrug. “We’ll see.”

Nikolai's good eye sweeps the room, landing on me. Something hungry flashes in his gaze, predatory and cold. "Fresh meat," he says, voice carrying despite its softness.

My skin crawls, but I hold his stare, refusing to look away first. This is how it works here—show weakness, and you're prey.

After what feels like eternity, he smirks and moves on, selecting a table far from the others.

"Word of advice?" Halloran says, standing to leave. "When Killion's done with you, pray they assign you to Yumiko's team." He glances at Nikolai. "Some fates are worse than washing out."

As he walks away, I watch Yumiko again. The perfect weapon. The finished product. Is that my future? That empty precision, that mechanical grace?

Part of me recoils at the thought.

But another part—the part that's always craved purpose, always hungered for the edge—whispers: You could be better.

I finish my meal in silence, feeling eyes on me from all corners. Measuring. Assessing.

Judging whether I'll survive.