Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  "Pro—"

  "I promise," I shout, quieting him. "Giuliana will be safe."

  "Fuck," Victor sighs, stopping chest compressions to check AJ's pulse at his wrist.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" I yell, grabbing his hand and placing it back on AJ's chest.

  "Dante," Victor says, shaking his head, "he's gone."

  Dropping my chin to my chest, I take two deep inhales through my nose and release the wound at his neck. Once he heard she would be safe, he let go.

  Closing my eyes, I sit back onto my calves. Anger boils in my gut and rage rises in my chest. Tossing my head back, I unleash my fury in a loud roar, then pull both my guns from their holsters and rise from behind the table.

  "Dante!" Victor shouts, but I start to fire, ignoring the sharp burn ripping through my shoulder and left thigh. The demons take control, shooting, killing, and reveling in the bloodbath we create.

  "Bring me the person responsible," Angelo's orders bring me back to the present.

  "I'll put people on it," I say, giving a slight nod.

  "Good," he returns the gesture. "Max will see you out," he dismisses, eyes conveying our conversation is over.

  Pushing out of the chair, I button my jacket and turn to leave.

  "I'll expect to see you tomorrow night," he says to my back.

  Fuck. I'd forgotten about the party. All levels of the organization would be in attendance. Felix's younger brother was being brought into the fold and tomorrow night would be a “men only” event. Well, the women would be plentiful, but no wives were invited.

  "I expect everyone to be there for the announcement," he orders, his voice rougher.

  "Of course," I concede over my shoulder before leaving his office.

  Fighting the urge to draw my knife and do humanity a favor, I close the door behind me.

  In the car, I focus on what I can currently control: Mei, the little dead girl in my apartment. We have much to discuss. Her past, why she mangles her fingertips, and who the fuck she's hiding from.

  The right side of my mouth hooks up at the thought of the fight she'll present. The challenge is only surpassed by one thing: her submission. A woman so dark, hungry, and tormented, I'm impressed by her ability to suppress the urges. I'm also fucking ravenous to get another glimpse of the monster hidden inside her.

  Mei

  Since my phone is nowhere to be found and there isn't a damn clock anywhere in my current prison, I have no idea how long Saint's been gone, nor how long I've been trapped here. Though it was long enough for me to eat half a sandwich and drink two of the three bottles of water brought for me.

  Catching my reflection in a wall length mirror, I see just how out of place I am in yet another lavish room. The light colors, brightness of the lightning, and clean surfaces feel suffocating. It's as if the light is trying to snuff out my dark.

  Turning from the mirror, I reenter the main portion of the bedroom. My feet sink into the thick carpet, tempting me to walk barefoot. But I don't. I need to be prepared for any chance to escape.

  The worn doll on the bed catches my attention. Just like me, it doesn't belong here. It's frayed red hair, torn blue checked dress, and dingy apron clash against the pristine look of the bed. We have more in common than our past.

  My knees touch the side of the mattress before I realize my past has drawn me to it like a moth to a flame. Swallowing the panic and fear, I shake my head.

  "It's a fucking doll," I tell myself. "It's not a bomb."

  Climbing into the middle of the bed, I take the doll in my hand and scoot back to the swirled wrought iron at the head.

  "You may have found me there, but you can't get me here," I whisper, face to face with my old friend.

  The doll's head flops forward just as the bedroom door opens, causing me to inhale sharply. Sketch appears in the doorway and I relax, placing the doll in my lap.

  What the hell does he want?

  At my apparent relaxing, he tilts his head just a bit and eyes me.

  "Little dead girl, if you think Saint is the only monster you should be afraid of, you are terribly wrong." He grins, entering the bedroom.

  Quietly snorting, I glance back down to the doll. I know it's dumb. I can sense the danger on this man, but I can't seem to care. If they are going to kill me, I'd rather they did it and got it over with. I've been played with my entire life—figuratively and literally.

  "You think I'm kidding? He isn't the only one who can end you," he presses.

  Looking from under my lashes, I watch him grip the edge of the footboard.

  From fist to shoulder to face, I trace him with my eyes. He is long, lean, strong, and definitely dangerous. This man carries demons. I can feel them calling from the depths of this dark brown gaze.

  "I'm not the one who's terribly wrong," I mumble, sounding calmer than I feel.

  Grin returning, he raises one brow, and asks, "Oh really?"

  "Really," I deadpan.

  "I've seen the way you tense and pull away, wanting to run from him," he laughs humorlessly. "Saint isn't someone to not be afraid of. Fuck, he scares me. So I'd think you were fucking insane if you didn't worry about what he'll do to you once he's done with you."

  Unable to keep the evil sneer off my face, my skin prickles with the heat of my anger. The pleasure I get at the way his stupid grin falls from his cocky face feeds my dark urges, emboldening me.

  Setting the doll to my left, I raise onto my knees and lift my chin.

  Sketch releases the footboard, straightening to his full height.

  "Your first mistake," I say through clenched teeth, "is assuming I'm sane. For someone who prides themselves on figuring people out, you sure do suck at it with me," I taunt, knee walking to the end of the mattress.

  Sliding my fingers over the edge of the footboard, I fist the metal. "I bet it kills you to be…" leaning over and propping my body on the wrought iron, I close the distance between us, "failing."

  The muscles in his jaw tick as his hands shoot out, gripping my biceps. The touch does nothing to shut me up, though. In fact, his reaction only spurs me on.

  "Your second mistake is thinking I haven't died before," I sneer, lifting both brows.

  "Is there a third?" Sketch's question wafts over my face, a mixture of whiskey and cigarettes.

  Grinning, I embrace the evil within me and stare straight into his dark eyes. "Is that I'm afraid of Saint."

  His eyes bore into mine for long moments before they widen and his hands relax. "You really aren't," he breathes out, disbelief and curiosity slackening his jaw.

  I smirk, pulling myself from his grip. Settling back onto the bed, my eyes never leaving his, I get comfortable in my previous spot and place my hand on the discarded doll.

  "No, Sketch, I'm not afraid of Saint," I confirm.

  "But I've watched how you act with him," he argues.

  "It's in my nature to want to run," I partially lie.

  "It's more than that," he says, shaking his head.

  "Yes, it is." At the sound of Saint's voice, I tense. Hairs raise on my arms and anticipation zings across my nerve endings.

  His presence fills the room, seducing and torturing me.

  I fist the doll at my side.

  "Tell him, dead girl," Saint pushes.

  To curb the exhilaration I feel when he's around, I lock my mouth shut and try to slow my breathing.

  "Tell him who you are when the light is gone and the innocent girl act is stripped away," he challenges.

  "Go to hell," I growl, not angry at the truth he speaks, but that he knows it at all.

  The evil lurking within recognizes and wants him. Even now, the urges swirl beneath my skin in a choreographed dance designed just for him.

  He grins, walking around the bed, and my eyes follow every languid movement of his large body. Stopping at the right of the bed, he leans down, fists burrowing into the mattress.

  "I've been in hell for years, dead girl," he informs. "Now, I'm bring
ing you with me."

  The minimal light in the room gives the illusion that his eyes are darkening, disappearing into pits of blackness. It sucks me in, making me want to delve into those depths and saturate myself in every dark fantasy.

  I'm inches from his face before realizing I've leaned forward. He's planted both his knees onto the bed, and I blink, trying to break the spell. Before I can pull away, he palms the back of head and takes my chin in the other.

  With smooth execution, he straddles my lap and his nostrils flare just before he crushes his mouth to mine.

  My body ignites, ready to hand myself over to do what he will with me. Fisting his jacket, I feel the knife just below the expensive material and reality creeps back into my lust addled brain.

  Sliding my hands over his chest and beneath his lapels, I curl my fingers around the handle and yank the blade out in a swoosh. It slices through his jacket and nicks the back of his arm.

  He barely makes a sound. Fuck, he doesn't even take his mouth from mine.

  "Saint," Sketch shouts a warning, but he's already tense and prepared for my fight.

  Our mouths still fused together, I battle to dominate the kiss. Locking his tongue between my teeth, I extend my arm. Before I can bring the blade back down, he grips my wrist and squeezes. It's painful, but not unbearable.

  Lifting his head from mine, both our chests rise and fall in rapid succession.

  The gleam in his eyes sends a shiver of euphoria straight between my legs. A murky, thick cloud of lust cyclones out of control. Spinning, spinning, spinning, until I'm dizzy and disoriented by him.

  Hand still on my wrist, he guides the knife to my neck, holding it against my skin. Lust turns to want, and want grows into need, burning me from the inside out. If he doesn't touch me soon, I'm sure I'll combust.

  Dropping my head back, I offer myself to him, allowing him undeterred access—to kill me the way he wants.

  The flat of the blade presses to my neck.

  "Saint," Sketch cautions from beyond our dirty, depraved, sick foreplay bubble.

  "Get out," he growls, low and feral.

  I squeeze my thighs together for relief, but get none.

  "Saint—" Sketch tries again.

  "Get out," he roars.

  A heavy sigh and the sound of a door slamming are the last I hear of Sketch. The right side of my mouth hooks up, knowing he was sent away like a punished child.

  Saint guides our joined hands, running the blade down and beneath the neckline of my shirt. Twisting the handle, he tries to cut through the cotton, but the fabric won't give.

  Impatient, he yanks the weapon from my hand and shoves me onto my back, fists my t-shirt, and slices it open. The soft material falls to my sides as the tip of his blade returns to the hollow of my neck.

  "I'm going to kill you." His whisper is rough and throaty.

  "I know," I gasp, arching my back enough to bare my throat to him.

  I'm not sure why I do it. Maybe I'm tired of running, hiding, or maybe, just maybe, my darkness can't think of a better way to die. The shiver that runs through me at the thought of his monster taking control of my fate tightens my nipples.

  "Beg me to do it," he orders on a groan, dragging the tip down, over my chest, stopping in the valley of my breasts.

  He slices through my bra, revealing the way my nipples reach out for him.

  Sliding the dull side of the blade over my left breast, the cold metal sends a flurry of tingles to my belly, and I close my eyes.

  The knife disappears, only to return in a quick slap against the already pebbled tip.

  Opening my eyes on a gasp, I find him studying my face. I lick my dry lips, and he slaps my breast again.

  The sharp sting of the metal hurts, but it also sends a pulse of pleasure from my belly to my clit. The sensation is so intense on the third strike, I can't help my squirm and fist the blanket beneath us.

  "Who are you?" he asks, slapping my other breast with the metal blade.

  "No one," I answer, breathily.

  One dark brow raises over a hazel eye. "You're going to tell me who you are, dead girl." His words are a promise.

  He strikes my nipple once more.

  "Oh God," I moan, clenching my thighs tighter.

  He leans down, bringing his face less than an inch from mine.

  "There's no God here, dead girl, only demons," he clarifies in a hot breath.

  "Beg me to do it. Beg me to kill you," he says against my lips, possessing them, forcing them to form the words with him.

  Closing my eyes, I admit, "I've already died once, just get it over with."

  Everything stills, his body, the air, and my heart.

  He pushes away from me, putting space between our bodies. His eyes search my face and I look away, but he takes my chin, turning it back to his. He studies me for an uncomfortably long moment.

  Feeling far more exposed than when I'm stripping on stage, I cover my chest with my hands and try to look away. His eyes drop to my hands on my breasts, releasing me from his gaze, but not the hold on my chin.

  Looking back at my face, he brushes his thumb over my lips and furrows his brow.

  "We will be going out tomorrow," he states, letting go of my face and pushing off my body.

  Swallowing down a mixture of relief and disappointment, I pull my shirt closed and sit up.

  At the side of the bed, he removes his jacket and tosses it over the end of the bed. My eyes focus on the guns holstered at his sides.

  Sliding them off, he hooks one strap on the end of the bed. My fingers itch to grab the weapons and escape.

  Turning to face me, he begins unbuttoning his shirt.

  "Not curious about where we will be going?" he asks.

  "I'm sure I won't like the answer," I respond, inching to the opposite side of the bed. Though, the more I think about it, the more I realize the reasons I'm running from him. I need distance from this man who ensnares me in his presence and consumes with a touch. If I submit and confess all my sins to him, I choose this gilded cage.

  His shirt falls away, and he undoes his belt. The jingle of the metal buckle pulls me out of my thoughts. Ignoring the revelation, I focus my efforts on reaching the opposite edge of the bed.

  "There's nowhere for you to go," he says, belt dropping to the floor with a thud.

  Attention solely on me, he pulls his t-shirt from the waist of his pants. My jaw tightens and I glare.

  "You're magnificent," he growls, kneeling onto the bed.

  Twisting, I try to crawl away, but Saint shackles my ankle with his large hand. Pulling me across the bed, I struggle until he pins me beneath him once more. Seizing my neck in one of his calloused hands, the fight leaves my body and I melt into the caress of his thumb along my jaw.

  "Your death starts tonight," he says, his voice gruff, low, promising.

  I fist the comforter, trying so hard not to touch him, but my resistance crumbles beneath every possessive stroke. Each piece of my mental armor is swallowed in wave of primal, raw need.

  Most people say the dark is cold and alone. Those people don't know a fucking thing. Craving, lust, and belonging wash through me, searing every inch of my skin.

  It is so far from the alone and empty I've been living. My soul feeds on the intimacy, triggering my surrender to the monster.

  "Please," I beg, verbalizing my submission.

  "Fuck," he says on a breath, flexing his hand. "It won't hurt…" he speaks against my mouth, "too much."

  Holding me the way he wants, he claims my mouth just the way I need him to. The kiss is every bit a possession of my body. The edges of his darkness dance across my skin, wrapping around my limbs, drawing out the depravity I lock away.

  Mei

  Jerking awake, I fight off the lingering aftermath of the nightmare. I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the phantom feeling of being chased. It's been a while since I dreamt about him and being within his reach.

  My surroundings slowly creep into
awareness. It must be early morning. The room is dimly lit from the windows, but the night still clutches to the black shadows at the corner. My arms ache as I push myself up the bed. Leaning against the headboard, the memory of Saint's hands on my body accompany the soreness. My thigh muscles twitch in anticipation, wanting the feel of his hip bones digging into them. A tingling begins in my exposed nipples, from how raw they feel and in memory of his attention.

  Closing my eyes, I drop my head back against the metal.

  I'm so weak. I did exactly what he wanted. Idiot!

  "We're going to talk about this doll," his voice startles me, "but first, you're going to tell me who you are and what the fuck has you crying out in your sleep."

  Pulling the sheet up my naked body, I hold it to my chest and glance to my right.

  Saint sits in a light gray, high-back chair. The darkness swallows his upper body, leaving his bare feet, legs, and forearms exposed. The knife in his right hand gleams in the low light of early day and the rag doll dangles from his left fist.

  "Tell me who you are," he demands, leaning forward. His face surfaces from the inky shadow, eyes focused on me.

  Licking my bottom lip, I wince. His kiss had been punishing and demanding, sealing my unknown fate with this man.

  "I'm just…" I hesitate, every practiced rule urging me to lie until I can get out of here.

  He pushes out of the chair, his naked body emerging from the darkness like a fallen angel. The scars I'd felt on his chest are now visually confirmed. The ones at his shoulder, just above his left hip, and high on his thigh look like bullet wounds. The long line crossing his right pectoral is jagged and raised higher than the others, most likely a knife or other sharp object. Anticipation swirls in my stomach, wondering if I'll get to see the ones I felt on his back.

  The doll is tossed into my lap, breaking me out of my perusal of battle wounds.

  "I'm just a runaway," I admit, and it's not a lie. I've been running away for years.

  Stopping at the edge of the bed, he taps his knife against his leg.

  "How did you become a dead girl?"

  Folding his arms over his chest, I watch the way he tucks the blade so it doesn't cut him. It's practiced, like he does it all the time.