Page 40 of Dolls & Daggers
“Hunter can kiss whoever he wants. I don’t care,” she states flippantly. “And you’re not being punished. I told you, I have plans tonight.”
“Youdocare.” I halt my mission, her last sentence finally resonating. Limbs contorted, I barely manage to pinch the zipper between my fingers. “What plans? You didn’t tell me about any plans. Why wasn’t I invited to the plans?”
“It’s for work,” she grumbles.
Something else filters through the speakers, but I can’t make it out. “What was that?”
“Hunter specifically requested me for a job,” she bites out.
I resume wrestling myself into this godforsaken clingwrap. “See? I don’t appreciate him telling me to get my shit together when you two are way worse. I seriously don’t understand why you don’t just give in already.”
“I have my reasons,” she murmurs. “Anyway. Maybe Wren just needs space. Have you thought about that? You two went from hating each other to making out, and then he told you he doesn’t like kissing with tongue, and you all but made fun of him.”
Standing straight, I stomp my platform boot into the thick rug covering the hardwood. “I did not make fun of him! I thought he was making me work for it! Youknowhow much I like a challenge.” I try to keep my tone light, full of my usual energy, but my throat still aches, reducing my outburst to a whispery tantrum.
“All I’m saying is you should wait until Monday to see him at work.” A page flips, followed by the crunch of Lucky Charms and the clink of a spoon against a bowl. “This isn’t something to play around with,Dove. If he finds out who you really are, it’s gonna get messy. You know it will.”
I secure my sleek black bob and check my reflection in the vanity mirror.
Most of my wigs are long and heavy, but tonight isn’t about looking like her. It’s about talking to Wren. Besides, I don’t wear the catsuit to any of my killings. This wig won’t draw as much suspicion, making it perfect for slipping through the streets unnoticed.
“I can’t wait, Buns.” I slip a few pairs of blackout contacts into the pocket of my ankle-length leather trench and strap my dagger sheath around my thigh.
“Damn, you got it bad. Jesus, maybe you should have married my husband instead. A man finally chokes you, and you want to put a ring on it,” she jokes.
Like me, Bunny often uses humor to cope with her past.
“No one said anything about a ring,” I reply flatly. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see his eyes. I think it hurt him more to see what he did than it hurt me.”
“I mean, I saw your throat. He temporarily tattooed his fingerprints on you.” I study the purple bruises in the mirror as she continues, “He’s probably ashamed, embarrassed, and worried the cops will show up at his door any second now. And whydidyou lethim get away with it? You could have gotten out of his grip.”
I think back to two nights ago—to the glaze in Wren’s eyes, the way he retreated into himself to deal with what I kept pushing him toward. I know that look well. And the words he whispered to the Doll still haunt me.
I’m already dead inside.
“Like I said,” I murmur. “You didn’t see his eyes.”
No garlic lingersin the air when I enter Wren’s home. No errant clicking of fingers on a keyboard or the delicate scrape of utensils against a plate. Just my songbird, wrapped in the cold and dark, staring blankly at the TV from his place on the couch.
His eyes slide to me as I make my presence known. The dead, empty caverns burst to life, shining with the light of a thousand suns. “You came back.”
“I didn’t like how we left things last time.” My modulator settings are unchanged, but the voice that escapes me sounds slightlyoff. Gently and as quietly as possible, I clear my throat as he shifts from his side to his feet.
Good god, those sweatpants should be illegal.
“I’m sorry about that.” He sheepishly rakes a handthrough his hair, the silken strands feathering back, the front falling just enough to frame his forehead. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”
He flashes that damn smile and steps forward. But when I whip out my dagger and point it at him, he stops abruptly, hands raised.
He won’t answer my calls or texts, making me look certifiably insane for how many times I’ve tried to reach him. But he’s happy the Doll is here?
Can you be jealous of your alter ego?
“Why are you glad?” I sidestep. He mirrors my movement but keeps his distance.
Wren shoves his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and fixes me with a look that is equal parts excitement and amusement. We step in tandem again, circling until my back is nearly to his couch. I creep around the edge of the coffee table and perch on the armrest farthest from him, keeping my weapon up in case he tries to rush me.
“Because I have questions.” He’s calm and cool and casual now. Entering his kitchen, he asks over his shoulder, “Would you like a drink?”
