19. Wrenley
Tapping my foot impatiently, I check my watch again. Only a few minutes have passed since the last time. With a sigh, I reload the browser, hoping—irrationally—for a new message in my inbox. It refreshes in real time; I know it's empty. Still, I check.
The office buzzes with chaos, as it always does when the site is under construction. You’d think by now Joe would stop publishing on the four days a month maintenance partially downs the system.
Finally, the browser loads.
Nothing. Again.
A flicker of irritation sparks somewhere between my chest and stomach, unsure whether it wants to rise to my throat or sink into my gut. Dove still hasn’t returned from her absurdly long lunch break, and she refused to tell me where she was going or why she needed the extra hour away.
Today was supposed to be the day she vouched for me to Joe. Not because I made her come three times last night—fingers and toys only, since she still won’t let me go down on her until my lip fully heals and neither of us has broached the subject of full-on sex yet—but because the article I wrote on the side of my regular workload had moved her to tears.
Instead of putting the Doll on a pedestal, as Dove once so eloquently put it, I wrote about how hurt people hurt people, exploring the possibility that perhaps the Doll was once abused herself—thus the reason for doing what she does.
A low blow, maybe, using Dove’s experience. But I used my own, too, wrapping our pain in pretty words that gave nothing away to indicate I was writing about us. I watched her carefully, searching for any hint that might confirm my growing suspicion—that it’s been her all along.
She remained silent after she finished reading, polishing off the rest of our bee pollen pancakes before leaving me in the middle of Tanner Smith’s to pay the bill while she freshened up. When she returned, she said she’d talk to Joe.
So far, though, it’s been radio silence.
Tiny footsteps approach hastily from down the hall, curving my lips into a smile that only faintly stings now. Fang bounds into the room, wiggling excitedly as he darts around my desk and leaps into my lap, licking my face in a flurry of kisses.
“Hey, little dude.”
The rat has grown on me.
When Dove mentioned she might visit her mother in a few weeks, I even volunteered to babysit.
You would have thought I single-handedly brought on the apocalypse with the way Bunny went off on me, calling me an interloper and insisting I was just a passing fancy. No way in hell would she let me watch her dogson—and if you don’t know what that is, it’s godson in dog mom language.
“Where’s your mom?” I scratch behind Fang’s ear, where the faded colors of his wiry fur resemble pastel dragon’s beard candy.
“He sure was excited to see you, and it’s been less than twenty-four hours. I’m starting to wonder if I should be jealous, Songbird.” Dove’s voice fills my office, flooding my veins with an instant dose of happy.
And sappy.
Fuck, I’ve got it bad.
The smartass quip on the tip of my tongue dies the moment I look up.
“What did you do to your hair?” I ask, equal parts horrified and stunned .
Dove’s beautiful blonde hair is a few inches shorter. Where it once hung to nearly the middle of her back, it now curls around the tops of her breasts. Streaks of pastel pink run through the strands from mid to tip in sporadic bursts.
I’ve never had a real girlfriend before—is she even my girlfriend?—so I have no idea how to navigate this situation. I don’t think you’re supposed to tell a woman you don’t like what she’s done with her hair, though.
I hate it. I hate everything about it because it doesn’t look like her.
She twirls, holding out her hands. “Do you like it?”
“Shouldn’t we have talked about it first?” I ask weakly.
Her hands drop to her sides, her expression flattening. “I don’t need your permission, Songbird. Besides,” she perks back up, “I thought it was time for a change.”
She rounds my desk to scoop up Fang. Her fingers brush against my cock—intentional, no doubt—but both he and I are too stunned for him to high-five her. “You told me to be honest about my feelings.”
Dove releases a short, breathy laugh and nods. “I did.”
“Okay.” I scrub a hand down my face, taking a deep breath. “This makes me extremely worried for the safety of my own gorgeous locks because I assure you, they will never be pink again.”
“Goodness, Songbird. Lighten up. No one asked you to color your hair again.”
“ I didn’t color it in the first place!”
“Mmhmm. Well, you still have no proof it was me.” She lilts the words, cocking her head before spinning in her four-inch pumps, the ruffled skirt of her dress sailing high enough to expose the curve of her cheeks and a pair of white lacy bikini-cut underwear.
“Why’d you do it?” I unglue my eyes from her ass when she turns back around.
A somber smile replaces her playful grin, not quite reaching her eyes. “I think you see someone else when you look at me sometimes, and I don’t want to remind you of someone who brings up bad memories.” I stare at her, trying to decode her meaning. I haven’t spoken about my past with her…
Maybe she knows you’re onto her as the Doll.
Do her words have a double meaning? She knows I’m not afraid of the Doll.
“Anyway, I need to get back to work. See you in a few hours.” She blows me a kiss.
I catch it, making a show of slapping it against my cheek. It’s our thing now, and we’re corny as fuck. I don’t know how we went from hating each other to being the poster couple for Hallmark, but they can start cutting us checks any day now.
“What about my article, Dove?” I call out to her retreating form.
She spins, flashing me a devilish grin with a wink. “Not quite there yet, Songbird.”
My smile drops, my heart sinking into my stomach.
Infuriating woman!
Dove
“It’s fine. I was going to go upstate with Hunter to visit his parents anyway,” Wren says when I tell him I’m busy this weekend and can’t hang out.
He chews his cashew chicken thoughtfully, his grip tightening around the spoon as he clearly winds up to ask a question. I’ve been waiting all night for him to ask why his article didn’t make it into this week’s edition.
“You have every Saturday on your calendar marked out for C.W. What is that?” he asks, his tone careful, guarded.
I swallow my bite of broccoli, dragging tofu and peppers onto my fork, pulling them between my lips to buy time to think of an adequate answer. The little Chinese-American restaurant where Wren eats three times a week has a fondness for spice, giving me a few extra seconds as I chase the heat down with lemon water.
C.W. stands for culling weekend—whether that means recon or stripping evil men of their privates before brutally murdering them—but it’s not like I can tell him that. I’m nearly one hundred percent sure he’s onto me. Wren has always watched me with fierce attentiveness, but now it’s heightened, like he’s waiting for me to slip, to catch the tiniest thread he can trace back to the Doll.
There’s only one other thing I can think of for C.W.
My mother.
“I have a standing date with my mother on Saturdays. She drives in from Rochester and stays the night. C.W. are her initials—Charlotte Woodsbury. She got remarried a few years ago.”
I don’t tell Wren that my mother and I don’t speak. That she tried paying off my abuser. That she never believed me. So he should be none the wiser about my little white lie.
Wren pauses mid-chew, eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet my gaze. “Hmm.”
Silence stretches between us for the next few minutes. He’s lost in thought while I focus on the fact that I need to get my shit together for this weekend. Wren and I have been spending so much time together that I haven’t put in the effort it takes to ensure things go off without a hitch.
It’s more than luring a bad man to a random place and eviscerating him. I have to learn his likes and dislikes, memorize his habits, know details like his drink of choice so it’s easier to drug him. I have to select the right wig, the right nightie, ensure I have enough supplies to scrub my DNA from everything.
It takes time. Planning.
And lately, I’ve been far more interested in getting very acquainted with my songbird’s gorgeous cock than ridding the world of immoral men and their nasty, tiny, shriveled peckers.
“Why didn’t you publish my article, Dove?” Wren’s question cuts through my thoughts, his voice low, tired.
I feel bad.
I really do.
But it’s my thing. I abandon my fork, pushing my plate back. Fang lifts his head from his bed by the sofa, tail wagging in hopes of a bite. As he stretches his tiny body, I hold up a hand. “No, baby boy. It’s too spicy for you.”
Wren’s eyes never leave mine. “Honestly, Songbird, you’re not going to like what I have to say, but I’m not going to sugarcoat it. The Doll is my thing. I picked Metro Media up from the ashes and I’ve been writing about her ever since. I’m sorry, I know it’s territorial, but how would you feel if I showed up at your last job and started writing about your shtick?”
A muscle ticks in his freshly shaved jawline. “I’m writing good pieces?—”
“You write beautifully, Wren. No one’s saying you don’t. But I’m not going to roll over and let you take my job just because I let you roll me around in the sheets now.” I try hard to mask my irritation, but it bubbles just beneath my skin as I try to get him to see reason. “You write about other things. I don’t. If you want to write about a serial killer, write about the Shadow Siren.”
“I don’t want to fucking write about the Siren, Dove. I want to write about the Doll.” His anger vanishes in an instant, replaced by a smug, boyish grin. “I have an in.”
I nearly laugh at his conviction.
“She approached me.”
Remembering to act surprised, I cock my head, eyes narrowing. “Why would she approach you ?”
He throws his hands out, still grinning. “What can I say? I guess a little birdie told her I was obsessed.” He flings my own words back at me.
I know what he’s doing. He’s testing me, trying to catch me in a lie, playing on my jealousy, thinking I might slip.
So I step it up. If it’s a show he wants, I’ll give him one.
“So you let a serial killer near you?” I sneer, dripping with false jealousy as I lean forward. “Are you so obsessed with her that you just… oh, I don’t know, forgot she kills men? Tell me, Wren, did she let you get close? Did you confess your love and devotion to her? Are you a two-timer, Songbird?”
“What? No!” Wren looks genuinely confused.
“So what?” I scoff. “You think just because she visited you, I should roll over and let you take my job?” I know I’m being selfish. Petty. But I’m not budging on this. Wren needs to stay in his lane and stop trying to crash into mine.
“You told me you’d put in a good word with Joe!” he snaps. Guilt tugs at me. “Why even say that if you had no intention of following through?”
I brighten, bouncing back to a chipper tone with a careless shrug. “I don’t know. You looked so hopeful, and I didn’t want to crush your dreams over pancakes.”
Wren stands abruptly, grabbing his suit jacket from the stool and sliding it on. “I don’t know what I’m doing there if you won’t even try to work with me. You’re being callous and treating me like shit.”
“No one’s treating you like shit, Wren!” I laugh, incredulous. “You’re being sensitive.”
“And you’re being insensitive.”
“Holy fuck, Songbird. I thought I was the woman in this relationship.” It’s a mean thing to say. I know it is. But I need him to go. I need space.
Because this is getting too real, too fast.
This argument makes me want to throw up my tofu veggie stir-fry. I hate the thought of Wren being upset with me. I hate that he feels like I’m silencing him.
But I won’t give myself up just to make him happy.
“Nice, Dove. Keep being a bitch.”
“Only to you, Songbird.” I flutter my lashes, flashing him a sardonic smile.
Wren stares at me for a long moment. So long that the tears threatening to surface nearly prick my lashes. He’s searching my face for a white flag.
All he’ll find is an enforced wall and a fuck ton of bombs.
I don’t know why I thought we could have a relationship. There are too many secrets between us. Too much horror and pain.
And I don’t want to emasculate Wren, but I’m not sure he can handle the truth .
I do what I do for a reason.
The Doll has a purpose.
I can’t let anything change that.
Not even the man I might be falling in love with.