Page 13 of Rogue Doll

Sienna makes that sound again—almost a laugh—and Killion shoots her a look that could strip paint.

"72-hour lockdown," he says finally. "Then we reassess."

It's not a yes, but it's not a no either. I'll take it.

"One more thing," Sienna says, her slate eyes calculating. "The drug you used on Reese. Was there any possibility of adverse effects? Anything unusual in his reaction?"

I think back to Victor's glazed eyes, his slurred confessions, the way he folded into unconsciousness like a puppet with cut strings.

"No," I say confidently. "Textbook response. By morning he would've had nothing but a hangover and some very uncomfortable feelings about his mother."

"And the suggestion," Killion presses. "Was it verbal only, or did you use physical triggers?"

"Verbal primarily," I reply, wondering where this is going. "Though I was sitting on him when I planted it—my hand on his chest, his cock desperate to be inside me again, whispering directly into his ear while the drug had him completely open. Maximum physical and psychological penetration." I tilt my head. "Why?"

Killion ignores my question. "Your pendant. The one that matched his mother's. Did he comment on it?"

“No, barely noticed. He was more transfixed by my tits —as he should be.”

Killion and Sienna exchange another one of those loaded looks.

"What?" I demand. "What are you not telling me?"

“Watch yourself. You're an asset," Killion reminds me, voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "A useful one, but still just an asset. Remember your place."

The door hisses open, and he's gone before I can argue further, leaving me alone with Sienna.

She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, so quietly I almost miss it:

"You knew exactly what you were doing with that suggestion."

I hold her gaze. "I'm a fast learner."

A smile ghosts across her face. "Maybe too fast. Be careful, Landry. Not everyone here appreciates initiative."

She turns to leave, but I catch her arm. "Sienna. What's really going on?"

She glances at my hand until I release her, then meets my eyes.

"Victor Reese wasn't just laundering money," she says finally. "He was moving something much more valuable. Information. The kind people like Volkov kill for."

"And now I'm connected to it," I realize.

She nods once, sharp and precise. "Welcome to the big leagues, Landry. The game just changed."

After she's gone, I stand alone in the red-lit room, adrenaline and something darker pulsing through my veins. My body still carries the marks of Victor Reese's hands, but now they feel different—not like victory trophies, but like breadcrumbs leading somewhere dangerous.

And fuck me if I'm not dying to follow them.

The morning after is always the worst part. That's what they don't tell you in spy school.

I wake up feeling like I've been fucked by a freight train—muscles screaming, throat raw, brain pulsing against my skull like it's trying to escape. My body's a crime scene of fading bruises and fingerprints, souvenirs from a dead man's touch.

Victor Reese, billionaire asshole, now cooling in some morgue with a bullet where his ego used to be.

And here I am. Alive. Locked down. Quarantined like a virus they're not sure how to contain.

The clock reads 9:17 AM. Day one of my 72-hour timeout, courtesy of Killion and whatever clusterfuck I've stumbled into. The room—my five-star concrete box—feels smaller today, walls pressing in like they know something I don't. The air tastes recycled, filtered through too many lungs, too many secrets.

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