6. Wrenley
“You have to be joking.” I don’t even bother hiding my annoyance as Bunny strolls into the conference room, Dove hot on her heels—a flare of pink in a sea of dark, monochrome civilian clothing and police uniforms.
Her long blonde locks are tied up halfway with a giant white bow, her face painted to perfection. Her light pink ruffled dress hugs her curves yet somehow still looks professional, even paired with her signature four-inch platform heels.
Multiple pairs of appreciative eyes follow her as she trails Bunny toward where I sit at the back of the room. From what I can tell, Dove and I are the only press in attendance, but we’re still relegated to the back because this isn’t a time for questions—only silent observance .
“Play nice,” Hunter murmurs, though I’m unsure if he’s warning me or talking to himself. He looks at Bunny with so much yearning I almost feel bad for him. Because as much as he wants her, she returns his longing stare with a disgusted curl of her lip.
“Hunter,” she greets flatly, crossing her arms as she turns toward the front of the room and leans against the table.
My eyes hone in on Dove, who lingers a few feet behind. She’s laughing, engaged in conversation with an officer who looks at her like the sun shines out of her ass and he needs a hefty dose of Vitamin D.
“Bunny,” Hunter returns in the same flat tone, mirroring her posture.
The officer leans down, and my body jerks instinctively—as if preparing to rise and intervene—when Dove slants into him slightly, hanging on his every word. Irrational rage washes through me, laced with irritation and a feral need to plant myself between them.
I hate how my body reacts to her.
Hate the number of times I’ve imagined her pouty pink lips wrapped around my cock over the last week. Her petite frame beneath me as I bend her over my desk.
Dove reaches out and touches the officer’s arm. “I’ll see you Thursday,” she says before walking our way.
I bristle as she sits, beaming like she’s actually happy to see me. “Beautiful Sunday, isn’t it, Songbird?”
Ignoring her, I continue trying to set the officer she was speaking to on fire with my nonexistent brain powers. It’s not until she puts herself directly in my line of sight that I refocus on her sparkling blue eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Same as you, idiot. What kind of question is that?
Her face scrunches up, mirroring my thoughts. “Same as you, silly. How was your weekend?”
Dove begins unpacking her bag, setting a pink pencil with a white fluffy puffball on the end next to her pastel notebook. A picture of a sunbathing llama graces the cover with the words No Drama Llama. She also pulls out an old-fashioned tape recorder, painted pink, and arranges everything in a neat line before turning toward me, ducking her head to catch my gaze.
“Everything okay with you today? You seem… off. Are you nervous?” Her head tilts in mock sympathy. “Watching her videos can be quite gruesome. Do you need a barf bag?”
She looks like she’s trying to hold back a smile, drawing my attention to her bubblegum-glossed lips as the corner of her mouth twitches. My cock jumps in response, and for a moment, I imagine what she’d do if I hauled her out of here right now and shoved her to her knees in the alley out back.
The thought of ruining her pristine image, of being the reason her smooth knees are bruised and cut from gravel, the cause of her mascara running down her cheeks as she gags on me, nearly has me coming in my pants.
“I’m fine.” I nod at the man behind her. “Who’s the guy?”
Smooth, Wren. That’ll surely make her swoon and lift her skirt for you.
Dove glances over her shoulder, and I take the opportunity to ensure no one is looking before I discreetly adjust myself. I don’t miss Hunter’s snicker, even though his back is still turned.
“Ryan? He’s a sporadic pillow partner.” Dove shrugs, waving a hand dismissively.
If I had water in my mouth, I would have spit it all over Hunter’s back. Instead, the saliva gets caught in my throat, and I choke on a cough.
Pillow partner?
That means he knows what she looks like naked. Probably knows what she looks like on her knees and doesn’t just have to imagine it. It means he fucking knows what it feels like to be inside her.
A dangerous feeling slithers through my veins like a viper about to strike its prey, coiled and tense, ready to kill.
The lights dim before Hunter and Bunny scoot to their respective sides of our table so that we have a clear view of the screen at the front. Someone begins speaking, likely explaining the video, but all I hear is Dove’s breath hitching, all I see is the way her eyes light up like she’s watching a parade of fluffy white kittens.
Fuck, she’s pretty.
I hate admitting how far she’s burrowed under my skin like a shiny pink tick. I know she’s bad for me, but the longer I stare, the more I want her.
Dove glances over and catches me watching her. Even in the dimly lit room, I see the blush staining her cheeks as her big blue eyes flick down to my lips before lifting back to meet my gaze. It feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience, watching the trainwreck that’s about to happen as she leans closer.
My fingers twitch, itching to sink into her hair just to find out if it’s as soft as it looks, but I’m frozen as she draws near enough for me to feel her warm breath on my lips.
“Careful, Songbird,” she murmurs, low and throaty, the words ghosting over my cheek as she tilts her mouth closer to my ear. “Keep staring, and I’ll think you’re beginning to like me.”
Dove pulls back quickly, not sparing me another glance as she turns her attention to the screen. I release the breath I’d been holding, my eyes darting up to catch Bunny’s amused, wolfish grin just as she turns her head.
Everyone quiets as the video begins in its usual fashion. The words message incoming glitch across the screen in broken red letters. Then the Doll’s laughter resonates throughout the room—broken and distorted from the modulator behind her mask.
A man sits bound in a chair, sobbing. “Please, I have a wife. I have children.”
There’s a click of a tongue, and a sarcastic, “Aww.” Then: “Tell them, Jefferey. Tell them what a bad boy you’ve been.” Slowly, she comes into view, cocking her head as she circles him.
There’s not enough of the room to recognize, and even if there were, the film has been edited to appear as if it were taken on a video recorder from the eighties. Broken lines and fuzzy glitches distort the scene, making her look even more frightening. The full cheeks of the white mask are painted red while the empty eye sockets have been decorated with baby doll lashes around them. Pitch-black stares from between the painted sockets—contacts used to hide the killer’s eyes.
The ruby lips on the mask are upturned, but I imagine the ones behind it are as well. She dances her fingers across his shoulder, giggling as he lurches forward and screams, “Let me go, you fucking lunatic!”
The scene shifts. My pulse thunders.
“Now, now. That isn’t very nice!” She moves to the side, kicking her foot up to rest between his legs. Her babydoll flutters around the tops of her thighs, revealing a frilly garter securing a sheathed dagger.
My chest aches with the need to breathe as she retrieves the dagger and flips it around, plunging it directly down into his crotch. Numerous cries of abject horror rise from the males in the room as the victim releases longer and higher-pitched screams than before.
She stares at her handiwork, looking so childlike standing there in pink fuzzy slippers and her sky-blue nightie. In every video she’s sent in so far, she’s wearing a different babydoll, along with different colored hair. But the mask, slippers, and contacts are always the same.
Neon pink locks pulled up in pigtails bounce as she yanks her weapon from his flesh and reaches for his belt. “Should we show them what happens to men who touch little kids inappropriately?”
Some of the officers look away when she reaches for a pair of black gloves and slides them over her long, black-tipped nails. They might see a demon playing with her food, but all I see is a beautiful craft .
There’s art in suffering. And the Doll is an artist.
All of her victims hurt children. Why shouldn’t they suffer before their demise? Children should be safe from adults. They should feel secure in their own homes, around their families. And when they find the courage to say something isn’t right, people should listen.
Adults should be better at reading the signs.
“You fucking bitc—” His words are cut off by the sharp crack of her backhand, delivered with a pair of needle-nose pliers.
“Ring around the rosie,” she sings, prying the pliers open before clamping them onto his mangled flesh.
“What are you doing?” he gasps, his breath coming in ragged, frantic wheezes.
“Pocket full of posies,” she continues, voice bright with glee as she reaches for her dagger.
“No! No! I swear—I’ll never touch anyone ever again!”
An officer gags as she starts sawing. The grotesque sounds blend with the Doll’s lilting lullaby and the man’s screams—until his body slumps, unconscious from the agony.
“Ashes, ashes,” she croons, spinning on her heel as he bleeds out, his severed dick gripped in one hand, dagger in the other. “We all fall down.”
The screen flickers. A series of images flash :
—His I.D.
—Him with his family at church.
—A candid shot at the elementary school where he teaches second grade.
—Emails between him and the Doll, arranging their meeting—because he thought she was an eight-year-old looking for someone to talk to.
Each image is interrupted by her spinning and humming. Over and over again. A chaotic, frenzied loop.
Unhinged.
And so fucking admirable.
I wish I had her strength. Wish I could do what she does.
The courage it must take to stand against an abuser, to end their reign of terror. The euphoria she must feel, knowing the predators will never hurt a child again.
“I can’t believe such a tiny woman can cause so much chaos,” a man speaks up from somewhere in the room.
“Maybe men should step back and learn a thing or two,” Dove mutters under her breath.
“What a monster,” someone murmurs.
“Her? Or him?” another voice counters, dripping with disdain.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s despicable, but look at her.” A man gestures at the screen, where the Doll now stares directly into the camera. “You gotta be pretty fucked up in the head to do that shit.”
“Sometimes monsters are just broken people, hiding their scars from a world that has hurt them,” Dove speaks louder this time.
Bunny hums in quiet agreement. Hunter and I exchange a look—brows furrowed, lips pressed into matching frowns.
I look back to the woman beside me. She’s hunched over her notebook, scribbling like her life depends on it, the puffball on her pen swaying with each furious stroke. As the lights return to normal, she absently reaches for her bag. The screen remains frozen on the Doll’s unsettling image with blood splattered across her skin and the powdery white mask.
With a sigh, Dove closes her book and sets down her pencil, rummaging through her purse until she pulls out a caramel. Bunny and Hunter drift toward different groups, leaving us alone.
“It must be nice,” she murmurs.
“What?” I can’t help but watch the way she unwraps the sweet, how her lips part as she pops it into her mouth.
“To have the power to make a difference. To change the world in such a big way.” She begins packing up her things. “I get why you think she’s perfect.”
“Nearly perfect.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Dove scrunches her nose, zipping her recorder into its case. “ Nearly ?”
The urge to drape my arm around the back of her chair in a show of possessiveness burns through me as my gaze lifts past her, locking onto Ryan who’s watching us curiously.
“Her only flaw,” I say, jaw tight, “is that she only goes after men.”
Dove’s breath hitches, carrying her question on a confectionary cloud. “What do you mean?”
I grit my teeth, eyes sliding back to the screen. “Men aren’t the only ones who abuse children.”