Page 9 of Rogue Doll

Oh, this is too perfect. Practically gift-wrapped. The emerald pendant between my breasts—the one chosen to match his mother's—catches the light as I move.

His breath hitches, ending on something that sounds suspiciously like a sob. “M-mama,” he groans.

Oh, good grief.I hold back my laughter. "When you wake up tomorrow," I murmur, voice hypnotic, "you'll realize something about yourself. Something you've been hiding."

"What?" he asks, completely in my power now.

"You're intensely, unavoidably attracted to your mother," I whisper. "You'll think about her when you touch yourself. You'll see her face when you're with other women. You'll dream about her every night. You’re a shamefully dirty boy, Victor. You can’t get hard without thinking about fucking her.”

His face contorts—confusion, horror, arousal all mingling together as the suggestion takes root in his drugged brain.

"But my mother," he mumbles, his brow furrowed with drug-addled confusion, "she died... three years ago."

I trace one finger down his chest, a smile spreading across my face like an oil slick.

"Perfect," I whisper against his throat. "That means she can't contradict your new confession about wanting to fuck her corpse. Imagine explaining that to your board members."

I kiss his slack mouth once, tasting victory and expensive whiskey.

"Sweet dreams, Victor. Hope you've got a good therapist."

His eyes roll up into his skull and within minutes he’s out like a light, the drug pulling him under into dreamless sleep where my suggestion will burrow deeper into his psyche.

I roll off him, mission complete. I slide from the bed, gathering my things with silent efficiency. The information is secure, the mark compromised in more ways than one. By the time he wakes, I'll be gone, and he'll be left with nothing but ahangover, a security breach he doesn't know about yet, and a deeply disturbing new sexual fixation that will haunt him for years.

Killion would disapprove of that last part—unnecessary risk, unprofessional behavior. But as I let myself out of the suite, I can't bring myself to care. Some small part of Landry James—the chaos-loving, boundary-pushing thrill-seeker—is still alive in there, refusing to be completely subsumed by Nova.

And honestly? That's the only part that still feels real.

Istride through the steel doors of headquarters like I own the place, mission-high still buzzing through my veins like premium vodka. My body's a map of victory marks—bite bruises on my neck, fingerprints on my hips, and the sweet, secret ache between my thighs. The emerald dress is gone, traded for tactical blacks that hug my curves like a second skin.

Let them look. Let them see what success wears home.

The concrete labyrinth echoes with my boots as I make my way to debrief. No more hood, no more handlers steering me like a broken shopping cart. I've earned my place in this fucked-up family of killers and spies. I got the code. I fucked the mark. I mindfucked him for dessert.

Mission accomplished, bitches.

Two hours after Victor Reese's cock was inside me, I'm sitting across from Killion in what passes for a debriefing room. The air smells like industrial cleaner and testosterone. Sienna leans against the wall, arms crossed, face blank as virgin canvas.

"Report," Killion says, voice arctic. No 'hello.' No 'good job.' Just that one word, dropped between us like a block of ice.

Agent Asshole reporting for duty.

"Eight-four-seven-three-one-nine-zero-six," I recite, the numbers falling from my lips like diamonds. "Plus three secondary passwords and the encryption protocol. It's all right here." I tap my temple with a smirk. "Photographic memory. One of my many talents you're only beginning to appreciate."

“Did you follow protocol to the letter?” Killion’s expression was cold as stone.

The tiniest smile curving the corner of my mouth is my undoing.

“Landry.”

“God, you’re the fun police.” I grouse, crossing my legs, leaning back in the metal chair like it's a throne before admitting, “Maybe I got a little creative after securing the intel. Consider it a performance bonus I awarded myself." I lick my lips, savoring the memory. “It was really a work of art, actually.”

“What the hell did you do?” Killion ground out.

“Oh, calm down. It’s not a big deal. You can’t hand me super cool spy tools and expect me not to use them.”

Killion’s low growl tickles me in private places but I figure I better not push too hard. “All I’m saying is that Imayhave planted a really awkward psychological time bomb thatmayhave him springing wood every time he thinks of his poorly departed mother.” I cackled with amusement. “Imagine Victor Reese jerking off to the thought of his blue-haired conservative mother. Classic.”

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