Page 4
T he first rule of gunfights? Don't be naked when they start.
Volkov tosses clothes at me while grabbing gear from a hidden compartment beneath the bed. The same bed where, thirty minutes ago, he was buried inside me, making animal sounds against my neck. Now we're doing the combat version of the morning-after shuffle.
"Fucking Killion," Volkov confirms grimly, checking the magazine on a matte-black Glock with the casual efficiency of someone who's fired it more times than they've brushed their teeth. "I know his extraction formation like own heartbeat."
I want to crow, "I told you he'd come for me" but that sounds like some pathetic damsel waiting to be rescued and I'm definitely not that girl, so I remain silent as I yank on pants.
No underwear. No time. My thigh wound burns as the fabric scrapes against it, but pain is just background noise now. The t-shirt follows, my skin still damp from the shower, making the cotton cling like a second skin.
"How many?" I ask, scanning the room for anything resembling a weapon. Volkov tosses me a knife—blade balanced for throwing, handle wrapped in black grip. Not ideal for a gunfight, but better than fingernails and attitude.
"Six-man team, standard Dollhouse extraction protocol." His face is all business now, no trace of the animal that was growling against my skin minutes ago. "Two snipers, four ground. Sienna will be coordinating."
The mention of her name twists something in my gut.
Sienna, who trained me, who shaped me, who never quite felt like the enemy even when everyone else did.
The woman who taught me how to use pleasure, how to read a target's desires before they knew them themselves.
The closest thing to a friend I had in that concrete hell.
Now she's hunting me.
"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 taught me 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.
"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 he know 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 reveal something 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."
We burst out into frigid night air, and I finally get my bearings—Eastern Europe for sure, some mid-sized industrial city where Soviet architecture crumbles alongside half-hearted attempts at modernization. The air tastes like coal smoke and impending snow.
Midnight streets empty except for the occasional drunk staggering between streetlights. The perfect backdrop for a chase scene—no witnesses, no bystanders, just hunters and prey playing out ancient patterns under modern lights.
"Why should I trust you?" I demand as we sprint through narrow alleyways, keeping to shadows.
"You shouldn't," Volkov replies without breaking stride. "Trust gets you killed. But right now, I am only one not actively trying to put bullet in your skull."
He's right, which pisses me off even more.
We reach a nondescript sedan—German, midrange, forgettable in the best possible way. The kind of car that blends into traffic like beige wallpaper. Volkov hot-wires it with practiced efficiency while I provide cover, scanning rooftops for sniper positions.
As we peel away from the curb, tires spinning on icy streets, I finally let myself breathe. Not safe. Not even close. But alive, which counts for something.
"I'm not choosing you," I say as the city blurs past our windows. "I'm choosing the monster I don't know over the one who's already proven he'll sacrifice me."
Volkov's lips twitch—not quite a smile, but as close as a man like him probably gets. "Self-preservation is good instinct."
"It's not about self-preservation," I counter, checking the magazine in my stolen weapon. Still half-full. "It's about finding the truth. Then making everyone who lied to me bleed for it."
His eyes flick to me briefly, assessment written in the glance. "Perhaps there is little bit of Russian in you after all, Landry James."
I lean back against the headrest, watching the unfamiliar city disappear behind us as we head for God knows where. The adrenaline crash is coming—I can feel it hovering at the edges of my consciousness, waiting to turn my limbs to lead and my brain to mush.
Blood dries in flaking patterns on my skin. The SIG rests heavy in my lap. My reflection in the passenger window shows a stranger—hollow-eyed, blood-smeared, something feral lurking behind the exhaustion.
But for now, I'm riding the high of the most fucked-up truth in my increasingly fucked-up existence: I've never felt more alive than I do right now, with blood on my hands and chaos in my wake.
Rational people run from danger. I've always preferred to fuck it instead.
Let's see where this particular bad decision leads.