Page 6 of Broken Doll (Dirty Doll Ops #1)

K illion woke me by slamming my door against the wall hard enough to wake the dead.

I bolted upright, heart jackhammering against my ribs, disoriented and raw.

"Get up." His voice sliced through the fog of sleep like a blade.

"Time to meet your new trainer."

I blinked, clawing my way back to consciousness, my muscles still shrieking from yesterday's torture session. Killion stood in the doorway—a mountain of hard angles and cold eyes—wearing the same black-on-black ensemble, like a fucking cartoon villain with a limited wardrobe.

"You know, a gentle knock would've sufficed." I stretched, wincing as my shoulders protested, every fiber screaming. "Or maybe a 'good morning, sunshine' to ease the transition."

He didn't even blink. Just stared, unimpressed, waiting for me to fall in line like a well-trained dog. "Three minutes. Down the hall."

"Eat glass," I mutter as I drag myself from the warmth of my bed.

Then he was gone, boots echoing against concrete. I dragged a hand through my tangled hair, mouth tasting like death warmed over, and stumbled to the sink. The mirror showed the damage—eyes bloodshot, skin pale except for bruises blooming purple where Killion's fingers had dug in, hair a rat's nest. I looked like warmed over dog shit but felt oddly alive, that sick thrill still buzzing under my skin.

Three minutes to transform from roadkill to government asset. Challenge accepted.

I threw water on my face, dragged a brush through my hair, and pulled on the clean clothes from the dresser—black leggings, fitted tank, combat boots. Basic bitch spy-wear, but at least it wasn't a prison jumpsuit. Small fucking victories.

Killion was waiting in a room I hadn't seen before—larger than my cell, with actual furniture. A metal table, chairs, and what looked like training mats covering half the floor. The air smelled different too—less antiseptic, more human. Coffee, maybe, and something else I couldn't place.

"Sienna?" I arch a brow, fishing again, but he's already moving, brushing past me to the door, his shoulder grazing mine—hard muscle, cold control. Before I can push, the door swings open, and she steps in—Sienna, I'm guessing.

She's shorter than me, lean and wiry, all sharp edges and coiled menace. Springy curls crop tight to her skull, framing a face that's more bone than flesh—high cheekbones, a jaw like a razor, pale blue eyes that cut like glass. She's in black—tight leggings, a fitted jacket, boots laced to her calves—moving silent as a shadow, a predator's grace in every step. A thin scar slashes her left eyebrow, white and jagged, a mark she wears like a medal.

She stops beside Killion, hands loose but primed, and I feel her sizing me up—the rumpled tank, the shadow of exhaustion under my eyes, the defiance I wear like armor.

"Landry," Killion says, nodding at me like I'm a tool on a rack. "This is Sienna. She'll be handling your specialized training." He pauses, eyes flicking between us. "I have other matters to attend to. She'll take it from here."

And just like that, he's gone—the door slamming with a finality that echoes in my bones. I'm left with Sienna and the sudden weight of "specialized training" hanging in the air like a guillotine.

She circles me slowly, those ice-chip eyes taking in every detail, from my tangled hair to my clenched fists. "Killion tells me you've been performing adequately in physical training," she says, voice low and raspy, like she smokes two packs a day. "But you're nowhere near field-ready and we're on a deadline."

I meet her stare, unflinching. "Define 'field-ready.'"

Her lips quirk, not quite a smile. "That's why I'm here." She stops in front of me, close enough I can smell her—gunmetal and something spicy, expensive. "My job is to make sure you can handle any situation, any target."

"I've fucked my way through half of LA's elite," I shoot back, arms crossing. "I think I can handle a horny mark without your help."

Sienna's laugh is sharp, more scalpel than sound. "You think this is about fucking? That's amateur hour." She leans in, voice dropping to a murmur. "This is about control. About becoming whatever they need, whoever they want—man, woman, doesn't matter. Your job is to be the perfect fantasy, the ultimate weapon."

My stomach tightens, the implication sinking in. "Wait—women too? I'm not?—"

"Gay?" She finishes, eyebrow arching. "Your sexuality is irrelevant. You'll be whatever the situation calls for." Her voice hardens, all business. "Men are easy—predictable, driven by ego and base desire. Women are harder to fool. More intuitive, more cautious. You need to know the difference."

I step back, that reckless defiance flaring. "I don't swing that way."

Sienna moves faster than I can track, her hand snaking out to grab my wrist, twisting until I'm forced to my knees, pain shooting up my arm. She leans down, her face inches from mine, those blue eyes glacial.

"Listen carefully, because I won't repeat myself," she hisses, breath hot against my cheek. "Your preferences don't matter. Your comfort doesn't matter. All that matters is the mission." She releases me, stepping back as I rub my wrist, glaring up at her. "Your body is a weapon, your sexuality a tool. Get used to it."

I climb to my feet, skin burning where she'd gripped me, pride stinging worse. "Fine," I spit, shoulders squaring. "Teach me."

Something shifts in her eyes—approval, maybe, or just cold calculation. "We'll start with the basics," she says, moving to the table, pulling out files, photos, graphs that look like fucking science experiments. "Men respond to visual cues, direct approaches. Women require finesse, connection. Both require reading body language, spotting tells, exploiting weaknesses."

"Sounds like a blast," I mutter, but I follow her to the table, that sick curiosity already taking hold. This is fucked up, twisted—but isn't that exactly what I signed up for? The ultimate game, the ultimate thrill?

Sienna tosses the folder aside. "Theory's a waste of time. You need practical experience."

She moves toward me, fluid and dangerous, like mercury encased in skin. Her hand cups my face, thumb brushing my bottom lip, and I freeze—not from fear but from the sheer unexpectedness of it.

"Women are about power," she murmurs, voice dropping an octave. "Not taking it—sharing it. That's what men never understand."

Her fingers trace my jawline, featherlight, sending electricity skittering under my skin. This isn't seduction, not exactly—it's a demonstration, clinical and precise, but my body doesn't know the difference. Heat blooms in my core, a traitorous response I can't control.

"Goddamnit," I breathe, trying to step back, but she's already anticipated the move, her other hand sliding to the small of my back, holding me in place.

"You're fighting it," she observes, those laser-blue eyes scanning my face. "That's your first mistake. Resistance creates tension. Tension creates tells." Her fingers drift lower, tracing the pulse point at my throat. "Let it happen. Observe it. Control it."

My heart hammers against my ribs, a drumbeat of confusion and unwanted arousal. This is a mind fuck—a power play designed to throw me off balance—but knowing doesn't stop the rush of heat between my thighs.

"Watch what I'm doing," Sienna instructs, voice steady even as her fingers work their magic. "I'm not rushing. Not grabbing. Every touch builds on the last, creates anticipation." Her hand slides beneath my tank, palm flat against my stomach, and I suck in a breath. "Feel that? The way your body responds? That's what you're learning to harness."

I should be disgusted. Should be fighting. But fuck, she's good—every touch precisely calibrated, every brush of skin against skin deliberate. My brain's a tornado of conflicting signals—this is wrong, this is training, this is hot, this is fucked up—but my body's made its choice.

"Most men go straight for the obvious," she says, fingers skimming the underside of my breast, just light enough to make my nipples harden against the thin cotton. "They rush. Fumble. Focus on the destination instead of the journey." She leans closer, breath ghosting my ear. "Women understand that power lies in patience."

Her thigh slips between mine, applying just enough pressure to make my hips buck involuntarily. A soft sound escapes me—half gasp, half moan—and heat floods my cheeks. This is humiliating. This is intoxicating.

"Stop fighting it," she commands, voice hardening. "You think a target's going to let someone who's obviously conflicted get close? Learn to sync your mind and body. Make them believe you want them more than oxygen."

Her hand slips beneath the waistband of my leggings, and I grab her wrist, a last-ditch effort at control. "I get it," I rasp, voice unsteady. "Demonstration over."

Sienna's laugh is low and dangerous. "No, you don't get it. Not yet." She breaks my grip effortlessly, her strength surprising. "This isn't about your pleasure. It's about control. About making them need you so badly they'll give up anything—secrets, codes, their soul—just to have you."

Her fingers slide lower, finding me embarrassingly wet, and a smile curves her lips—knowing, victorious. "See? Your body's already on board. Now your mind needs to catch up."

She works me with expert precision, every stroke calculated, every circle of her thumb a masterclass in control. My legs tremble, breath coming in ragged gasps, and she watches my face with scientific detachment, cataloging every reaction.

"Pay attention," she instructs, voice steady even as her fingers drive me higher. "Watch what I'm doing. The pace. The pressure. The way I'm reading your responses." She curls her fingers just so, and a moan tears from my throat. "That's it. That's what you're looking for—the moment they break. When they're so lost in sensation they'd tell you anything."

I'm close—so close—my body coiled tight as a spring, every nerve ending screaming for release. And then she stops, fingers withdrawing, leaving me on the edge, desperate and panting.

"What the fuck?" I gasp, legs barely supporting me.

Sienna steps back, wiping her fingers on her pants with clinical detachment. "That's lesson one," she says, voice cool. "Control isn't just about giving pleasure—it's about withholding it. About keeping them desperate, needy, willing to do anything for relief."

I stare at her, face flushed, body still thrumming with unspent energy. "You sadistic bitch."

A smile flickers across her face—the first real one I've seen. "Now you're getting it." She moves back to the table, gathering the files. "Men are easy. Their arousal is obvious, their release predictable. Women require skill, patience, attention to detail." She glances back at me, those ice-chip eyes calculating. "Which makes them more valuable targets. More dangerous ones, too."

I straighten, adjusting my clothes, trying to recover some dignity even as my body screams for completion. "So what, every lesson ends with me half-naked and desperate?"

"Only until you learn to separate desire from duty," she replies, tossing me the file. "Study these. Tomorrow we test your skills—on a real subject."

My stomach drops. "You're not serious."

"Dead serious," she says, heading for the door. "Oh, and Landry?" She pauses, hand on the knob. "Don't finish yourself off. The frustration will help you focus tomorrow."

The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with a throbbing ache between my thighs and a new understanding of what "specialized training" really means.

I slump into a chair, legs still trembling, brain a mess of conflicting emotions. This is a whole new level of fucked up—being trained not just to fight, not just to deceive, but to weaponize pleasure itself. To become the ultimate fantasy, regardless of my own desires.

Part of me is screaming to run. To find a way out of this steel box, away from Killion's cold control and Sienna's dangerous lessons. But the other part—the dark, twisted part that's always chased the next thrill, the next rush—that part's already hungry for more.

For all my bravado about fucking my way through LA, I've always been the one in control. The one who decided who, when, how far. Now the tables have turned, and I'm the one being played—and fucked if I don't respect the skill behind it.

I flip open the file, trying to focus on the charts and graphs, but all I can see is Sienna's face—those calculating eyes, that knowing smile. All I can feel is the ghost of her touch, the promise of pleasure withheld.

Tomorrow, she'll test me. Push me further. Break me down to build me into whatever the hell they need me to be.

And God help me, I'm going to excel. I'm going to master every trick, every technique, every mind game they throw at me. Not because I believe in their cause—fuck no—but because I refuse to be anything less than the best at whatever game I'm playing.

Even if the game is turning myself into the perfect weapon.

Even if the price is pieces of my soul.

I close the file, decision made. Tomorrow, I'll show Sienna—and Killion—exactly what I'm capable of. I'll become the student that surpasses the master, the weapon that can't be controlled.

Game on, motherfuckers. Game fucking on.