3. Wrenley
Disgust.
Pure, unadulterated disgust floods my veins the moment I lay eyes on the beautiful woman before me.
It’s irrational but lethal—poisonous. Suffocating. Her azure eyes, so eerily familiar, pierce me with a quiet madness, dragging me straight back to that room, to a time when I was younger. Helpless.
She has the same bouncy blonde hair. The same pretty blue eyes that sparkle with lies, hiding a darkness no one else sees. Long, thick lashes and a heart-shaped face painted to perfection. The only notable difference is the outfit—head-to-toe pink. A color she detests.
It’s not the same. Stop it, Wren.
Dove’s enticing smile never falters as dark thoughts echo through my mind. Delicate fingers, with nails painted like watermelon slices, slip from mine and settle on her hip, drawing my attention to her white skirt—too short to be office-appropriate.
Judging by the way my new boss watches her, like he beats his dick to the image of her prancing around in outfits like this, I’d say she gets away with whatever she wants.
She doesn’t return my polite sentiment about looking forward to working together. I mask my amusement with charm and flattery. “I’m a big fan. I’ve followed your work since the Baby Doll Killer started sending in the nursery rhyme videos. It’s amazing how much you can glean from an otherwise silent serial killer.”
Her cheeks flush. The backhanded compliment and insinuation that she makes a bunch of shit up for her articles sails over her head as she giggles and waves me off. “Oh, there’s nothing silent about her, Songbird. You just have to stop yappin’ to hear what she has to say.”
Okay, so the insult didn’t go over her head.
My fabricated smile drops. My blood turns crystalline at the nickname. Heat sears my lungs, stealing my breath.
Joe seems oblivious to my discomfort. Dove tilts her head to the side as she scrunches her button nose. “It’s okay,” she says, her tone too cheery, like a kindergarten teacher explaining a simple word to one of her students. “I’ll teach you how to listen.”
“Well then.” Joe coughs, lightly touching Dove’s back as he motions between us. “Looks like you two are off to a good start. Dove, would you mind showing Wrenley to his office?”
My chest remains tight, but I force a tense smile and nod. Dove’s head swings toward him, breaking our stare, and my lungs finally expand. She places a hand on his shoulder, locking eyes with him. “Of course, Joe. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
Somehow, her assurance is anything but reassuring.
As he leaves, Dove turns back to me, her smile somehow even larger. She rounds my frame, setting her things on a table in the corner. “So, you want to cover the Baby Doll Killer, huh?”
Fighting the urge to rub the ache in my chest, I watch her unpack—a pink tufted satchel, then her purse—meticulously placing her laptop, phone, and notepad on the desk before glancing at her keyboard. Her big blue eyes flick to mine for a split second before she adjusts it slightly then gives me her full attention, choosing not to speak on the fact that I disturbed her desk when I sat there.
Was it a bold move? Probably. Nothing screams, hey, I’m coming for your job like acting as though it’s already mine. I could do without the light pink walls and cream crown molding—though, on closer inspection, they might actually be wallpaper.
But I can daydream about renovations later.
Feigning contemplation, I buy time to calm down. There’s no possible way she could know what that nickname does to me. It’s the literal meaning of my name. I fight the urge to growl when she uses it again, this time impatient for my answer.
“Sing, Songbird. Why her and not the Shadow Siren? You are aware she’s my area of expertise? If you’re such a fan of my work and all.”
Somehow, though she’s chastising me, she makes it sound like praise. Her voice—a raspy blend of sex and bubblegum pop—is as paradoxical as her appearance, as the darkness lurking beneath her milk-and-honey complexion.
Stop comparing them.
“Because even though they’re both basically vigilantes, the Shadow Siren isn’t nearly as interesting as the Baby Doll Killer. She’s basic in her form and not nearly as intricate as the Doll.”
Dove’s eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “Oh?”
I don’t mention my obsession with the Baby Doll Killer. That I’ve been consumed by her ever since her first video was leaked online. Dove doesn’t need to know my fixation runs deeper than the Mariana Trench.
I swear the corner of her mouth twitches like she’s trying to fight her amusement. “Is that so?”
Charm filters back into my timbre. “Do you not agree?”
“It’s just interesting to hear you basically compliment a serial killer who murders men.” She laughs, tilting her head. The sunlight filters in through the window behind her, bathing her in a glow that makes her seem almost ethereal.
“Bad men who prey on innocent children.” I don’t mask the bite in my tone, and it seems to placate her.
“Well, how about this? Why don’t you start by working on something about the Shadow Siren, and I’ll take a look before?—”
“Are you my boss, or is Joe?” I cut her off.
Dove bites her bottom lip, pearly white teeth that are too straight to be natural peek out before she lets the plump flesh go and rounds the desk. Perky breasts strain against her pale pink silk blouse, every inch of her swathed in a cotton candy color scheme from her sparkly eyeshadow to her platform heels.
When she reaches me, I can’t help but acknowledge how our vast height difference turns me on. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what she’d feel like beneath me. Those big blue eyes looking up at me while she struggles to take my cock. Soft curves reddening from the strike of my palm. My height kink flares. Without her shoes, she’s even shorter, which, unfortunately for me, really makes me want to bend her over her desk and bury myself inside her until she can taste me.
I don’t remember the last time I had such a strong reaction to a woman.
It worries me that it’s possibly because she looks so much like her , which, in my mind, is completely unacceptable.
She hums as though she knows where my mind has gone, stepping into me until our chests nearly brush. “Would you like me to be your boss?” Her sultry question hits me right between my legs, causing a swell of revulsion to splash against my insides.
“I’d like you to show me to my office,” I reply, breathier than I mean to.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Wren? Stop acting like a fucking teenager.
Dove steps back, and whatever just passed between us dissipates. “I think you’re really gonna like it here,” she chirps, motioning for me to follow, her bright and bubbly demeanor back in place. “Nadia will be by later to take you through orientation and give you the rundown on how this place works. You’re more than welcome to work on something for the Doll, but at the end of the day, we decide on the spread as a team.”
She leaves the unspoken fact that they’ll have her back before mine hanging between us—a silent warning to stay in my lane and out of her way.
Something slithers through me as I follow the petite blonde—my new work rival. As I trail after Dove, only half listening to her annoyingly chipper voice, I drown in her thick scent of cookies and warm vanilla—like walking into an ice cream shop. By the time we reach my office, my stomach churns from the sugar-spun greetings she’s scattered across the office.
People adore her, and she knows it—uses it to her advantage.
A monster dressed in pink who will make you love her while she plots to ruin your life.
It’s been a long time since a woman caught my attention, though not for their lack of trying. I’m not stupid—I know what I look like. She never missed an opportunity to groom me to perfection, telling me how handsome I was until I learned that my looks and charm could get me whatever I wanted.
However, the only thing I seem to want, I can’t have. No matter how hard I try.
My days are spent chasing the identity of the Baby Doll Killer and following up on leads. My nights could easily be filled with meaningless hookups and half-hearted promises to call the next day, but there’s only one woman who occupies my thoughts. And she’s a stone-cold killer .
Five minutes in Dove’s presence, and I feel like that’s about to change.
She grabs the frame of what I assume is my office and swings into the room, twirling with her arms out as she announces, “This is you. You can decorate it however you want, though you have to run paint choices by Joe.”
I refrain from pointing out that if she can have an office that looks like it belongs to a rich little girl, then adding my own personal touches—like my murder board and thumbnail posters from the videos the Baby Doll Killer sends to the police—shouldn’t be a problem. Men like Joe are all the same. If they bend for the women, a few well-placed words and a threat or two will make them break for the men.
“I’d be happy to show you around at lunch, if you’d like,” she sings sweetly, as though we didn’t get off on the wrong foot. As though I didn’t waltz into her office and loudly declare that I want her job.
Keep your enemies close and all that.
“That won’t be necessary, thanks.” I hold her gaze as I step around her and sink into the chair behind the mahogany desk.
Dove smirks, perching on the edge of it. My eyes work overtime to ensure they don’t drift to the strip of thigh I can see from my peripheral vision.
“Do you have a problem with me, little Songbird? ”
“Don’t call me that. And trust me, sweetheart, there’s nothing little about me.” A smirk curls over my lips. I shouldn’t goad her. Shouldn’t feel the flicker of satisfaction as her eyes widen a fraction, curiosity darkening her gaze when I finally meet it. And I certainly should not be picturing her small frame trapped beneath me, writhing as I plow into her with a force that could split her in half.
She sucks in a sharp breath, lips pressing into a thin line as her eyebrows arch toward her hairline. “You know, I could report you to HR for that. What a way to start your first day,” she taunts, singsong and saccharine. “I won’t.” Leaning over my desk, her blouse dips low, offering a glimpse of lace-encased breasts as she whispers, “But I could.”
With a wink and a giggle, she hops off the glossy wooden surface with a flourish, placing her hands on her hips with a shrug as she steps just out of my line of sight.
“I make a better friend than I do an enemy, Wren. Your choice.” Her voice lilts in the space between us, carrying its own rhythm—a song only she can hear. But if I listen hard enough, I’m starting to pick up the beat.
“It’s Wrenley,” I growl through clenched teeth, fixing her with a hard, sidelong glare from beneath my lashes. It’s a petty move—something a woman would do—but I refuse to turn my head and give her my full attention.
Dove’s smile stretches so wide I half expect her cheeks to split and pour glitter-speckled blood all over my Oxfords. With another shrug, she spins away, and the hem of her skirt flutters around her perky ass, teasing the promise of a peek at the supple skin beneath if I keep staring long enough.
“I think I’ll stick to Songbird.” Her words drift behind her on a sugary cloud as she sashays back to her office.
My fist tightens, and my cock hardens behind my slacks like a poorly trained puppy, eager to return to its master despite the inevitable punishment.
Yes, please, beat me. I’d prefer her to do it, but at this point, I’ll settle for a good palming session in the bathroom on break.
“Fuck you,” I mutter to the rock-hard flesh between my legs.
Breathing deep through my nose, I scrub a hand over my face, trying to discreetly adjust myself under the desk.
So much for an easy first fucking day.