Page 5 of Broken Doll (Dirty Doll Ops #1)

T he steel door's clang still rattles my skull as Killion turns, his boots hitting the concrete with that slow, deliberate thud that's burrowed into my brain like a tick.

"Follow," he says, not looking back, voice flat and cold as a knife's edge. No hesitation, no glance to see if I'm trailing—he knows I'll fall in line, and that certainty burns, a splinter under my nail I can't pry out.

I hate how he's got me clocked, a mutt he doesn't even need to whistle for.

I peel off the wall, legs shaking like jelly, every muscle shrieking from hours of training—bent into impossible angles, wrists twisted, his voice a relentless hammer pounding my skull.

Sweat's dried into a crusty film on my skin, tank top clinging like a soaked rag, ripe with salt and musk. My hair's a greasy tangle plastered to my neck, strands sticking to my cheeks, and I can feel the grime—dirt from the floor, sweat-slick filth—coating me like a second skin.

I'm a mess, raw and frayed, a live wire buzzing with exhaustion and that hot, restless itch I can't kill.

I follow anyway, dragging myself after him, refusing to admit how my entire body felt like it’d been put through a meat grinder.

The hallway's a claustrophobic chute—endless white walls, fluorescents humming overhead like a swarm of pissed-off flies, casting a glare that stabs my eyes. The air's cold, biting, laced with antiseptic and a faint metallic whiff—rust, maybe blood—and my brain's already bouncing, too fast, too loud.

Where's he dragging me?

Another room to break me?

A hole to dump me in?

I keep my face blank, lips clamped, swallowing the questions.

Asking's a waste—he'd just shut me down, that uncrackable bastard, and I'm too tired to spar with a brick wall.

We turn a corner, and he stops at a door—steel, unmarked, a twin to every other in this labyrinth. He swipes a keycard, the lock chirping a shrill beep that grates my raw nerves and shoves it open. "Inside," he says, stepping aside, his bulk filling the frame like a goddamn bouncer.

I brush past him, close enough to catch the heat rolling off him—gun oil, sweat, that sharp mint sting on his breath cutting through the damp—and step into the room. It's not what I expected.

No more prison cot, no more steel toilet without a seat.

This place has actual furniture—a real bed with sheets that look too clean to be true, a dresser, even a fucking window, though the glass is frosted, a tease of light without the view.

"Your quarters," Killion says, voice clipped, like he's reading off a manual. "For now."

I turn, scanning the space, looking for the catch. There's always a catch.

Cameras in the corners?

Microphones? A two-way mirror?

Or maybe just a door that locks from the outside, a prettier cage but a cage all the same.

"What's this, a promotion?" I drawl, arms crossing over my chest, ignoring how they tremble. "Or are we playing house now?"

He doesn't bite. Just stands there, unreadable, a mountain of muscle and control. "You've earned it."

Something sparks in my gut—pride? Christ, how pathetic is that? Hungry for scraps from a man who'd snap my neck without blinking. I hate it. Hate him. Hate the little glow warming my chest at his almost-praise. I swallow it down, bitter as bile.

"Generous," I sneer, kicking off my shoes, making a show of it—casual, unbothered. "Does it come with room service? Cause I could kill for a medium-rare steak and a bottle of anything above 80 proof."

His gaze narrows, just a fraction, but it's there—a flicker of something in that granite face. Annoyance? Amusement? I can't tell, and it drives me fucking insane, this wall between us, the way he sees through me while I'm still tripping on my feet.

"Bathroom's through there," he says, ignoring the bait. "Shower. Sleep. Clean clothes in the dresser." He steps back, hand on the door. "Oh, and Landry?"

I raise an eyebrow, waiting.

"Tomorrow, you meet Sienna." His voice shifts, a new edge creeping in. "Don't fuck it up."

The door shuts before I can ask who the fuck Sienna is, the lock clicking with quiet finality. I stand there, alone, the silence pressing in from all sides, thick enough to choke on.

My first instinct's to trash the place—flip the mattress, smash the lamp, leave my mark on these sterile walls. It's what I'd do at home when Isaac pissed me off, when the walls closed in too tight, and I needed an escape hatch. But I'm too fucking tired, bones hollow, muscles screaming from Killion's torture session.

Instead, I stagger to the bathroom, flipping the switch. The light's too bright, shocking after the dim glow of the bedroom, and I wince, slamming my eyes shut. When I open them, I catch my reflection in the mirror and freeze.

Holy shit.

I barely recognize myself. My face is thinner, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, dark circles like bruises under my eyes. My hair's a rat's nest, tangled in knots, and my skin's pale, almost translucent, except for the flush of exertion staining my cheeks. I look wrecked. Feral. Like something that's been caged too long, starved into submission.

But my eyes—those are different. Harder, brighter, with a glint that wasn't there before. The eyes of a predator, not prey. When did that happen?

I strip, dropping the sweat-stiff clothes to the floor, and step into the shower. The water hits hot—scalding—and I don't adjust it, letting it burn, scrubbing until my skin's raw and pink, washing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering ghost of Killion's hands on my body. Steam billows, thick and choking, fogging the glass until I'm just a blurry silhouette, a smudge of color against white tile.

My mind drifts, water drumming against my skull, and I catch myself wondering about Sienna. Another handler? Why someone new? Was she the female version of Killion, all hard angles and zero sense of humor? Was she hot? The thought sends a sick thrill zipping through me, a rush I'm ashamed to crave.

When did this become the plan for my life?

Back in that club—Malvagio, with its red lights and pounding bass, Derek's laugh cutting through the haze, hands on my hips, lips on my neck—that was the plan. Chaos on my terms. A life where I controlled the damage, chose the wreckage, picked the battlefield.

Fuck, Malvagio seems like a lifetime ago. A fever dream of neon and sin.

Last time I was there—what, three weeks ago? Four?—I'd worn that black dress with the back cut so low you could see the dimples above my ass. The one Isaac thought I'd donated because "it wasn't appropriate for a dinner with his boss." Poor, clueless Isaac, who’d thought I was at a girls' weekend in Palm Springs while I was letting a stranger with a tongue piercing eat me out in the VIP lounge.

I can still feel it if I close my eyes—the bass thumping through the floor, vibrating up my legs, mixing with tequila and adrenaline in my veins. The press of bodies, slick with sweat and desire, everyone wanting something, everyone willing to pay for it one way or another.

Derek had been with that redhead—what was her name? Candi? Brandi? Something with an 'i' where a 'y' should be—while I'd found myself pinned against the wall by some tech bro with hungry eyes and clever fingers. He'd whispered filth in my ear, promises of what he'd do to me, how he'd make me beg, and I'd smiled, letting him think he was in control.

That was the game—let them think they're winning while you walk away with everything. The rush of power when their eyes glazed over, when they'd offer up anything—secrets, cash, keys to their penthouse—just for another taste. For the chance to possess something they never could.

I remember leaving the main floor, following Tech Bro to a private room where the music dulled to a distant heartbeat. His hands shaking as he closed the door, as he tried to act like he wasn't scared of what he'd unleashed. I'd pushed him onto the leather couch, straddled him, watched his eyes widen as I took what I wanted.

"Tell me something nobody knows about you," I'd whispered, nipping at his ear, and like they all did, he spilled—some bullshit about insider trading, about the wife who didn't understand him, about how he'd never felt this alive.

I'd let him think he was special. Let him think he'd found something real in that darkened room with its sticky floors and mirrored ceiling. And when I was done, when I'd used him up and wrung him dry, I'd walked away without a backward glance, his number already forgotten, his secrets filed away with all the others—useless currency in a game I played just to feel something.

Here’s the thing, I love secrets. There’s something about holding onto information that doesn’t belong to me that curls my toes.

God, I'd been so fucking bored. So desperate for a thrill that I'd risk everything—my marriage, my safety, my future—just to feel that spike of adrenaline when a stranger's hands closed around my throat, when the line between pleasure and danger blurred to nothing.

And now? Now I'm here, in this sterile box, with a man who could kill me with his bare hands, who sees through every mask I've ever worn, and I'm still chasing that same high. Still hungry for the edge, for the fall, for the moment when control slips and chaos reigns.

But this? This is something else. A chain I can't see, a leash I hadn't felt tightening until it was too late.

And the worst part? I don't hate it. Not completely.

I shut off the water, skin stinging from the heat, and lean against the tile. Isaac floats into my mind like unwanted sediment in expensive vodka.

Isaac. Fucking Isaac with his accounting degree and his perfectly ironed shirts. The man I promised forever to while mentally calculating how many shopping sprees his family connections would buy me.

Sue me, I like nice things —and nice things are expensive.

I remember our third date, some overpriced French place where he kept mispronouncing the wine. He'd reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine, eyes earnest as a golden retriever. "I think I'm falling for you," he'd said, and I'd smiled, letting him see exactly what he wanted to see. Not the real me—Christ, he'd run screaming—but the carefully curated version. Landry Lite?. All the looks, none of the danger.

I'd been twenty-six, flat broke after my latest reinvention, and exhausted from the endless hustle of staying afloat in L.A. without a trust fund. Isaac was... safe. Boring as beige wallpaper, but safe. A human security blanket with an 800 credit score and a five-year plan that included a mortgage and 2.5 sticky children I had zero intention of pushing out.

The crazy part? I almost convinced myself I wanted it. The Sunday brunches. The dinner parties with his tedious colleagues. The mind-numbing routine of missionary sex every Tuesday and Friday because that's when his schedule allowed for "intimacy time." His words, not mine. Who the fuck schedules sex like a dental cleaning?

One time I brought home the girthiest butt plug I could find just to watch the blood drain from Isaac’s face when I suggested we have a little fun. I’m pretty sure his asshole puckered so tight a beam of light couldn’t penetrate that chocolate starfish.

He never saw the real me. Not once. Not when I faked orgasms with Oscar-worthy conviction. Not when I slipped out at 2 a.m. to meet strangers in hotel bars. Not even when I came home with bruises I couldn't explain—he'd just assume I'd been "clumsy again," his concerned expression never quite connecting the dots.

That's why I married him. Because he couldn't see me. Wouldn't see me. And there's no safer place to hide than in plain sight beside someone with carefully calibrated blind spots.

The worst nights weren't the fights—we rarely had those. The worst were the quiet moments when he'd look at me with such fucking tenderness I wanted to scream. Like the night he found me on the balcony at 3 a.m., shaking from a nightmare I couldn't shake. An explosion, excruciating pain, total chaos erupting all around me like the devil himself was running a training exercise.

He'd wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, kissed my temple, and whispered, "Whatever it is, we'll get through it together."

Together. As if we'd ever been in the same reality. In that moment, I’d been overwhelmed by the insane urge to punch him in the throat.

God, I was such a bitch.

I scratch at a scab on my hip—souvenir from Killion slamming me into a training mat—and laugh into the steamy air.

The truth? A part of me had wanted Isaac to wake up and leave me. Call me names that I deserved and kick me out of that cozy nest of security so I could feel alive again.

The more fucked-up truth? Being kidnapped, imprisoned, and brutalized by Killion feels more honest than five years of marriage to Isaac ever did. At least here, the cage has visible bars. The pain comes with purpose. The rules, however savage, are crystal clear.

With Isaac, I suffocated in beige comfort, dying by degrees in Egyptian cotton sheets and Sunday farmers' markets, my soul calcifying under the crushing weight of normalcy. Every day was just another brick in a mausoleum I built myself, entombed in a life that looked perfect on Instagram but felt like slow-motion suicide.

No wonder I spent three nights a week letting strangers bruise me in club bathrooms. Pain was the only thing that felt real anymore.

I wrap the towel around me, pressing my forehead against the foggy mirror. Maybe Isaac was the first man I truly betrayed. Not with my body—that was just flesh, meaningless as currency—but by making him believe in someone who never existed. By letting him build a life with my ghost.

"Sorry, Isaac," I whisper to no one, not sorry at all. "Some women aren't meant to be wives."

I turn away from the mirror, from thoughts of the man who never knew me, and focus on tomorrow. On Sienna. On becoming whatever lethal thing Killion sees in me.

Isaac was the past—safe harbor in a life I was drowning in. This steel cage, these brutal handlers, this dangerous new existence?

This is the fucking oxygen I've been gasping for all along.

I check the dresser, and sure enough, there are clothes—simple, practical, nothing like the flashy shit I'd wear to the club, but not prison-issue either. I pull on a plain black tank, loose pants that sit low on my hips, and crawl into bed, the sheets cool against my clean skin.

The ceiling's blank, white, offering nothing to focus on as I stare up, waiting for sleep to claim me. My body's wrecked, but my brain's still wired, spinning like a hamster wheel—Killion's voice echoing, his hands, his eyes burning into me, breaking me down piece by piece just to see what I'm made of.

And Sienna. Whoever the fuck that is.

My eyes drift shut, the exhaustion finally dragging me under, and my last coherent thought is this: I'm in too deep to swim back now. Whatever comes next—whoever Sienna is, whatever hell Killion's got lined up—I'm all in. Not because I don't have a choice, but because the sick, twisted part of me wants to see how it ends.

God help me, I want to break him back.