Page 12 of Dolls & Daggers
Once it’s posted, I round the counter, sitting next to her. Golden sunlight beams through the dining room window, casting its glow over her features, turning the shiny white scar on her cheek a silvery shade. It’s rare for her to go out without covering it with a foil sticker, but she never leaves home without a pack of them in her bag.
“When is the video going through?”
“At three. I’m pretty sure Hunter told Wrenley he could sit in on the viewing this time,” she says, finishing her cereal. “How have things been at work between you two?”
“Interesting, to say the least.” I prop my chin in my hand. “I’m starting to wonder why he wants to work for M.M. He could go anywhere and have his articles published. He’s a great writer, and if he weren’t so infuriating, I’d probably fall for him with how he writes about me… well, the Doll.”
“Whywon’tyou publish his articles?”
“Because he romanticizes her. At the end of the day, the Baby Doll Killer still does just that—kills. When I write about it, I make sure the public knowshow awful the alleged victims were. When he writes, he makes murder seem sexy and the Doll alluring. He’s enamored with her, and the last thing we need is the public seeing her that way. She’s a vigilante, not a sex symbol.” I sigh. “I wear fuzzy slippers and sing lullabies, for crying out loud. Wrenley will start a movement where civilians start going out and taking matters into their own hands. That will draw bad attention toMetro Media.Not to mention, it’ll paint our alter egos in an extremely bad light if the public starts romanticizing us. We still have the press on our side. I’d like to keep it that way.”
Maybe I should just explain that to Wrenley—without giving myself away, of course. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t stringing him along for my own personal reasons. He'll stick around if I keep telling him he just has to work harder before I publish something of his.
And for whatever reason, I don’t want the songbird to fly away just yet. Something about him captivates me. Or maybe I’m obsessed with how he sees me as the Doll. It’s fascinating—his resentment for me versus his infatuation with her.
A part of me wonders if he’s attracted to theideaof the Doll. Of a masked woman sneaking in, tying him up, and using his body for her pleasure. It’s anormal fantasy for women about men, so why can’t men feel the same?
Even more intriguing? The idea doesn’t seem so bad to me. I’ve often daydreamed about having Wrenley completely at my mercy—not to torture or kill, but to fuck. His tall frame quivering beneath me, hands bound so he’s unable to touch. His heated gaze taking in every naked inch of me as I writhe above him, riding his generously sized cock until he fills me—and it is quite large. I glimpsed its impressive outline at the gym the other day. The thought of making it fit had me so wet I had to cut my treadmill session short before anyone noticed.
But back to my daydream. Right when he comes, I’ll remove my mask, letting him see it’s me milking him dry. Me he’s allowing to tie him up and fuck him silly.
What would he do then if I untied him? Would he fuck me like he hates me? Pour all his aggression into a sweaty, furious bed session, only to go back to sneering at me in the office?
A shiver runs through me, goosebumps prickling my skin.
“Do I want to know where you just went in your head?” Bunny’s voice snaps me out of my trance. My cheeks heat as I avoid her knowing gaze and devilishsmirk. “Seriously, Dove, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in love.”
“I’m not in love!” The squeak in my voice betrays me.
“Uh-huh. Sure.” She sips her drink. “Just don’t let him leave. Maybe throw him a bone every once in a while. Play a little nicer. Because when you put it that way, you’re right, and the last thing we need is him spreading that shit elsewhere.”
She’s right. But something tells me that once I let my guard down around the songbird, he’ll prove far more dangerous than he lets on.
Just like I wear a mask to hide who I truly am, Wrenley wears one of his own, hiding his true intentions behind a charming disguise.
I just need to figure out what his secret is.
“You have to be joking.”I don’t even bother hiding my annoyance as Bunny strolls into the conference room, Dove hot on her heels—a flare of pink in a sea of dark, monochrome civilian clothing and police uniforms.
Her long blonde locks are tied up halfway with a giant white bow, her face painted to perfection. Her light pink ruffled dress hugs her curves yet somehow still looks professional, even paired with her signature four-inch platform heels.
Multiple pairs of appreciative eyes follow her as she trails Bunny toward where I sit at the back of the room. From what I can tell, Dove and I are the only press in attendance, but we’re still relegated to the back because this isn’t a time for questions—only silent observance.
“Play nice,” Hunter murmurs, though I’m unsure if he’s warning me or talking to himself. He looks at Bunny with so much yearning I almost feel bad for him. Because as much as he wants her, she returns his longing stare with a disgusted curl of her lip.
“Hunter,” she greets flatly, crossing her arms as she turns toward the front of the room and leans against the table.
My eyes hone in on Dove, who lingers a few feet behind. She’s laughing, engaged in conversation with an officer who looks at her like the sun shines out of her ass and he needs a hefty dose of Vitamin D.
“Bunny,” Hunter returns in the same flat tone, mirroring her posture.
The officer leans down, and my body jerks instinctively—as if preparing to rise and intervene—when Dove slants into him slightly, hanging on his every word. Irrational rage washes through me, laced with irritation and a feral need to plant myself between them.
I hate how my body reacts to her.
Hate the number of times I’ve imagined her pouty pink lips wrapped around my cock over the last week. Her petite frame beneath me as I bend her over my desk.
Dove reaches out and touches the officer’s arm. “I’ll seeyou Thursday,” she says before walking our way.
