Page 31 of Dolls & Daggers
“I’m not going to have fun! I’m going to scare the living daylights out of him!”
Wren livesin a small one-bedroom apartment in Murray Hill, on a busy street teeming with nightlife. It’s loud and chaotic, which surprises me because Wren doesn’t seem like the nightlife type.
Sure, he spends time at The Tipsy Taco, but we all do. Tuesdays and Thursdays are paramount for networking with new contacts and sources, and that’s just been the place to go for the last year and a half.
The clamor makes it easy to blend in. No one looks twice at the long trench covering my outfit or gives mea suspicious side-eye as I slip into the tiny alley between the buildings. I spent all day mapping out the route—pinpointing exactly which window to enter and where to stash my bag and coat—so I can get in quickly and slip away just as efficiently.
“Though she be but little, she is fierce,” I chant quietly as I hoist myself onto the top of a dumpster and begin climbing the rickety, old fire escape. The building is a four-story walk-up, so I take my time, careful not to rattle the metal too much. The last thing I need is someone swinging a baseball bat out their window, thinking I’m a burglar.
Don’t worry, residents of Wren’s apartment building. I’m not a burglar—just a serial killer here to scare the shit out of my annoyingly gorgeous work rival.
A soft glow spills from the hall outside Wren’s bedroom. Thankfully, the fire escape leads directly to his room, not the living quarters. Otherwise, this would be a much more complicated feat, and I’d have to wait until much later.
“Ten out of ten do not recommend,” I murmur, prepping myself. Having barely three feet to situate my bag, fasten my wig, and put in my contacts—in the dark, I might add, not an easy thing to do—is less than ideal.
Oh, the things we do for pure, unadulterated loathing.
I manage because I’m a pro.
Once my mask is in place, I slide open the window and slip inside, silent as a grave.
I am darkness. I am shadow. I am an angel of death.
From what I can see of Wren’s room in the dark, it’s spotless, with only a bed and a dresser to fill the space. On the wall is a board mirroring the one he has at work—tracking the Doll and all her accomplishments. Nothing personal. Nothing to make it feel homey.
It’s cold and sad. My big ol’ heart clenches with empathy.
It’s fine, Dove. He just moved back and probably hasn’t had time to go shopping.
Taking a steadying breath, I stand at the doorway and listen. The aroma of garlic fills the space, and now and then, the occasional scrape of a utensil against a plate mixes with the rhythmic clicking of a keyboard.
Busy, busy boy. What are you working on, Songbird? Another article I’ll have to stow away? More flowery words about how the Doll is perfect in every way for me to get myself off to in the privacy of my apartment?
Don’t judge me. I have a thing for words, okay?
Gradually, I make my way down the short hall. So fucking slowly, so my boots don’t make a sound. Myfingers tighten around my dagger, knuckles likely white beneath my fingerless gloves. My heart beats in my chest with such violent thumps it’ll be a miracle Wren doesn’t hear it first.
At the hall’s end, his apartment opens into a living room on the left and a tiny kitchen on the right. He’s sitting on one of those sectionals that got super popular a few years ago for small apartment living—the kind that pulls out into a bed but isn’t more than three cushions wide, with the third being a storage chaise.
A small coffee table holds his dinner—a bowl of pasta that smells fucking amazing—and a bottle of imported beer. He’s relaxed, laptop on his thighs, thin wire-framed reading glasses perched on his nose.
How did I not know he wears glasses? And why the fuck does it up his hotness factor by a thousand? The glasses, combined with his gray sweats and messily tousled hair, are enough to send my body into overdrive. He’s a goddamn booby trap of desire.
I want to stomp my foot and throw a tantrum but settle for an annoyed huff, momentarily forgetting my mission.
Wren’s fingers still over the keyboard, his entire body freezing like a scared chicken.
Worst serial killer ever.
His gaze lifts to mine. He blinks once. Twice. Thenshakes his head. Moving his laptop to the cushion beside him, he removes his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “Wow, Wren. You’re even imagining her in your apartment now. You seriously need therapy.”
I cock my head, waiting for him to realize this isn’t a dream. I’m very real, and he should be very scared.
As he looks back up, his eyes widen slightly before he laughs wryly. “Okay, who the fuck are you, and how did you get in here? Did Hunter put you up to this?” Wren looks around like Hunter might be hiding somewhere. “Ha. Ha. You dick.” His gaze returns to me. “Seriously, it’s not funny. I don’t know you. I don’t appreciate a stranger in my house.”
If I were a burglar, this guy would definitely be dead by now.
Refraining from shaking my head at Wren’s apparent lack of danger intuition, I step forward, snapping a sharp, “Sit down!” as he tries to stand.
