Page 20 of Dolls & Daggers
The ugliest rat… dog... ratdog...? known to mankind stares up at me.
“What the fuck are you?” I drawl with disgusted curiosity, watching the creature as it rounds my desk to continue its unblinking scrutiny.
Its body is hairless, mottled brown and white skin exposed, while tufts of fluffy white fur cover its paws, tail, and head like some bizarre lion. A gauzy pink scarf is wrapped around its neck, and a darker pink fuzzy headband—complete with a puffball—sits atop its head, pushing hair into its eyes.
This has to belong to Dove.
The creature lets out a low noise, somewhere between a growl and a soft bark, tail wagging as it rears back and launches itself into my lap before I can react. My hands fly up, unsure if this thing has fleas, rabies, or some other disease I might catch.
It’s not that I hate dogs—it’s that I’m one hundred percent positive this thing is part New York sewer rat.
“Why are you in here, little dude?” I ask as it circles once before curling up on my lap. “No.” I wave a hand in a shooing motion. “Go away.”
It yawns, body shuddering with the movement, a tiny squeak escaping its maw before it settles, completely unbothered. A thick, bejeweled collar rattles against an attached tag I hadn’t noticed before.
“Fang,” I read aloud, letting the glittery skull-and-crossbones ID plate slip from my fingers. “Seriously? She named youFang? Aren’t dogs with that name supposed to be scary?”
Fang huffs in agreement before closing his eyes, perfectly content. A notification dings from my laptop. I glance at the sender—Mrs. Tailor’s office with information on the new family center—before turning back to work.
I barely notice how much time passes before I hear Dove’s frantic voice breaking through the office hum. “Fang!” Even in alarm, her voice is bright and chipper.
The heavy clack of her platforms echoes down the hall. A smirk tugs at my lips. Even if she looks in, she’ll never see her precious pup curled up in my lap.
No! Fuck! Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Play nice!
My proverbial angel groans in exasperation, but I flick him away like an annoying gnat. Dove appears just outside the glass separating my office from the rest of the floor, wide blue eyes scanning for her dog while others abandon their cubicles to help.
I glance down, smirking as Fang doesn’t move an inch. In fact—yep—he’s snoring.
Dove hesitates at my open door, unwilling to look inside. Instead, she calls for her dog again and starts toward the break room.
This time, the little bastard perks up, and he responds with a sharp yip.
Her head snaps around, fury ablaze in her sparking eyes. Yes, I mean sparking, not sparkling. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ashes on my chair. She stomps into my office.
“Fang!” she calls sharply.
Like something out of a cartoon, his head pops up over my desk, and he barks.
“What are you doing in here, you silly boy?” She ducks her head back out. “Found him!” Then, turning back to me, she narrows her eyes.
“Hey! He came in here. It’s not like I stole him. Maybe keep your ratdog on a leash if he runs off on you.”
“Ex—excuse me?Ratdog?” Dove sputters. “His name is Fang! He’s a Chinese Crested and the cutest thing in all the city!” She coos at him as she scoops him up.
As she collects him, her fingers brush my thigh, and I go rigid. Instant arousal hits me like a truck. She doesn’t notice, too preoccupied tucking him into her arms like a baby.
“Maybe if you didn’t dress him in pink and glitter, he wouldn’t have run off,” I say derisively, leaning on my armrest, amusement curling my lips.
Inwardly, I berate myself.Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
Both the angel and devil on my shoulders take turns slapping me upside the head as they shout at me. One with his halo, the other his pitchfork, as I keep royally screwing myself six ways from Sunday with this woman.
To my surprise, she giggles. It’s terrifying. Especially considering she’s shown no form of retaliation for calling her such a nasty name—just aggressive edits and condescending notes in the margins of my work, but that’s really nothing new.
“Oh, Songbird,” she sighs, smirking. “What am I going to do with you?” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head, her big blonde hair bouncing with the movement and falling over her bare shoulders.
Shamelessly, I drag my gaze suggestively down her body. Her outfit today consists of a bubblegum-pink button-down, collared, short-sleeved top with a matching skirt. For being so short, she has legs for days, made to look even longer by her heels. I flick my eyes back up, licking my lips. “I can think of a few things, but I’d really like it if you’d,” I pause, letting my overly sarcastic charm fall flat when I continue, “publish my damn articles about the Doll!”
