Page 7 of The Dollhouse

Zoey’s back straightened, and she locked eyes with him. I sat there for a few moments, watching their quiet pissing contest. Who was the bigger person? Carter, definitely, in more ways than one, but Zoey did have some backbone in her.

That could be fun.

Though I knew it would be the last thing Carter would want to do, I said, “Take Crystal and leave. I want to talk to Zoey alone.” Carter moved to Crystal’s side, picking up her skimpy clothes off the floor and shoving them at her. “Oh, and Crystal?”

Those big baby blues, so unlike Zoey’s, met mine, questioning.

“Grab us some drinks, will you?”

As soon as she was dressed, she and Carter left the room. The door closed, leaving me with Zoey. I motioned to the couch, and Zoey made no moves to go to it. She, clearly, did not understand that the things I told her to do were orders and not suggestions.

“Sit,” I spat out, frowning. Zoey would learn that I could be either a king or an executioner. Sometimes, I was both on the same day. Whichever one she got would depend on how she acted, and right now she was obstinate.

Something must’ve registered, for Zoey held back a sigh, going to sit down on the couch across from me. “Nothing like sitting on your sex couch,” she said, staring right at me, begging me to say something smart back.

I forced a smirk, knowing suddenly this girl and I were going to have a lot of fun together. If she believed tonight would be the only night I’d grace her life, she was wrong. So very, very wrong.

“To be fair, the Dollhouse owns the couch,” I said.

She shifted her weight, crossing her legs like mine, mimicking how I sat. Zoey said nothing, even when Carter entered, carrying a tray with two drinks on it. He handed me the first one, and the second to her, leaving shortly after.

“That’s Carter,” I said, taking a sip of the drink. Fruity drinks weren’t my favorite, but I would make do. “He does anything I tell him to.”

“Including the workers here, I see,” she deadpanned, setting down the glass on the floor near her heeled feet.

I narrowed my eyes. “Drink.”

“I’m not twenty-one yet.”

If that wasn’t a challenge, I didn’t know what was. Not yet twenty-one and working at a place like this. Why? Was she so down on her luck that she had nowhere else to turn, no family to help pick herself back up?

“I won’t tell,” I whispered, hardly blinking as I stared at her. She and I were alone in this room, no windows, no cameras. The things I could do to her here were unspeakable, and I’d be a liar if I said my cock wilted at the thought.

Silence took over the room, and I did nothing but continue to sip my drink while Zoey acted unimpressed.

She broke the silence, saying, “Can I ask you something?”

I shrugged my shoulders, figuring she would regardless of what I said.

“Who are you?”

The corner of my lip quirked. Who was I? Such a complicated question with an even more complicated answer, one I knew many women here wondered, especially when I paid so well. The truth, boiled down to the bare bones of it, was this: “I’m the man a lot of people call when they want someone out of the picture.”

Finally, that got a reaction from her. “An assassin?”

I had to hand it to her; she got me to chuckle. The wordassassinwas so… political. I much preferred the termenforcer, if any term had to be used at all. Hell, I’d even take the label ofhitmanoverassassin.

“In a way, yes,” I relented, figuring it would be easier to let her believe that. It wasn’t like I went around killing everyone who anyone wanted dead; only people who went against my family and their business. I used the termfamilyloosely, of course, because my closest blood relatives were deader than doornails.

“So you kill people?” Zoey somehow felt the need to clarify.

“I do.” I finished up the drink, gripping the empty glass as I set it on the armrest. I ran a single finger around its rim, staring steadily at her, wondering what she was thinking. She certainly wasn’t reacting normally at all, which led me to wonder just how damaged this girl was.

“Huh,” she said, as if I’d just told her that I was an accountant and not a murderer.

Huh indeed.

I leaned forward, noting the way her spine snapped straight with my movement. So I made her uncomfortable; good. At least the girl had some brains tucked away in that pink head of hers. “Let me ask you a question,” I said, my voice low. “Who are you?”

---