21. Dove
Ryan being on the other side of the door instead of Thomas Hardy was not on my bingo card for tonight. Then again—Tom Hardy—fuck, I should have known better.
This was supposed to be an easy kill .
There’s easy: when they look just like any other murder. Medium: when it seems like an average break-in homicide. And then there’s hard: when I dress to the nines, record myself, and release my feminine rage in the form of a deranged psychopath for the night.
Thomas Hardy was supposed to be simple—a quick way to quell my frustration, restock Fang’s jerky supply, and call it a night.
Never in a million fucking years would I have done this without the copious amounts of research I usually do. But my stupid, stupid songbird just had to go and make things difficult, didn’t he? He had to go and distract me with hurt feelings and his gorgeous dick that I miss entirely too much for only having had it for a few days. And now I have to kill a cop—an asshole cop, but one with a nice penis and a talented tongue. A shame, really, for the future women who would have taken him for a ride.
Some women are into assholes. We listen, and we don’t judge.
Ryan’s eyes widen, mirroring the shock in mine. “Dove?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I drop the strand of hair I’d been twirling around my finger, scrambling for something to say. But before I can, his face twists into pure malice. Surprise steals the breath from my lungs as his hands wrap around my throat, shoving me into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He shakes me like a ragdoll. Terror seeps into my bones as I claw at his hands. My poor neck can’t take much more choking. It’s too delicate to be handled so roughly.
Ryan shoves me onto the bed, finally releasing my throat to jab a meaty, gloved finger in my direction. “Start talking, Carroway. What the hell is going on?”
“What are you doing here?” I stall, buying time. Maybe I can spin a story about baiting a creep. After all, this wasn’t my usual meticulous setup. It was rushed and reckless. I should have dug deeper into the fake persona Ryan used on the website where I typically meet my easy kills.
“What’s it look like?” He laughs bitterly. “I got suspended without pay because of you. But when I return with the Baby Doll Killer, I’ll be welcomed back with open arms.” He eyes my outfit, scoffing. “How fucking stupid is Hunter? You were right under his nose the whole time.”
I was under yours too, dickwad. Trust me, I’ve thought long and hard about that more than once.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I flash him an airy laugh, rising to my feet. “What makes you think I’m the killer?”
Ryan whips out a pistol—one eerily similar to his government-issued sidearm—and aims it at me. “Don’t fucking move.”
I raise my hands in surrender, giving him a broad, toothy smile and shrug. “Maybe I just have a thing for role-play, okay?”
“Stop lying, you bitch.” His grip tightens on the gun as he pulls a set of handcuffs from his belt. “I fucked you on and off for two years. I think I would have figured that out.” He stalks toward me, taking slow, measured steps. “You know, I’ve been after you for months now. Trying to catch the Doll before Hunter.” A laugh bubbles from his lips, tinged with disbelief. “Never would’ve guessed it was you.”
With a detached sigh, I flop back onto the bed, the mattress bouncing beneath me. “See, that’s the thing about people like me, Ryan. We hide our kinks well.”
He’s so preoccupied with thinking he’s caught the Doll that he never notices the dagger strapped high on my thigh. Just a few more steps, and he’s mine. His eyes flick between my gaze and where my fists clench onto the rough fabric of the old comforter. His breaths come in shaky exhales, likely from the rush of believing he’s finally caught a serial killer.
There’s a reason why Ryan never passes the evaluation for a promotion to detective. He likes to play alone.
Rule number one when hunting a killer: you never go after them alone.
I reach up, causing him to flinch, his finger twitching on the trigger. “Relax, Ryan. I’m just taking these ridiculous pigtails out. Man, imagine how stupid you’re going to look when you haul me in, and I tell them I just like being railed by older men who have a thing for adult women who look like little girls.” I huff a laugh while removing the first hair tie, letting the right side cascade over my shoulder. Ryan’s grip slackens, his gun dipping a fraction. “It’s embarrassing for me, sure. But you’re already in trouble for manhandling me, and now you’re following me to hotels and roughing me up? You’re just begging to get fired. Talk about stalker status.” I pull out the second tie, hand drifting near my thigh as I discreetly hike my nightie up.
Ryan lowers his gun even further. “I’m not roughing you?—”
In less than three seconds, I palm my dagger and lunge, driving the shiny silver blade deep into his chest, right over his heart. Before he can register what’s happening, I knock the gun from his grasp and drag the blade downward with every ounce of strength I have. His eyes bulge, his gaze flicking from the weapon embedded in him to my face.
Usually, I wait until I’ve had the chance to drug my victims with a drink, then take my time to roll out a tarp to make cleanup easier.
What’s a girl to do, though?
“You know, I thought you were such a nice guy at first,” I whisper, maneuvering him back toward the bed. Our height difference makes it a little tricky, but I cradle his neck and guide him down so we’re more at eye level. A choked cough splatters blood onto his chin in flecks of crimson. Luckily, none of it gets on me.
“You were sweet, and so kind to Fang. And really, that’s the most upsetting part of all this.” I yank the dagger free, flipping the handle to drive it just below his ribs. “My dog really liked you. And now I have to feed him your penis.”
“Dove?”
I freeze as an all-too-familiar voice sounds to my left, calling my name with a singular, horrified syllable.
Ryan’s blood escapes the wound in small rivulets, seeping into his shirt. I let go to avoid getting it on me. He gurgles out a wet cry for help as I slowly turn toward my songbird, who’s standing in the open doorway, his wide, unbelieving eyes flicking between Ryan and me.
How did I not hear the door open?
Worst serial killer ever.
Something dark stirs in my belly. Slowly, it slithers around my organs, constricting some while causing others to work overtime to process this fucking nightmare of a situation I find myself in.
“Close the door, Songbird,” I murmur, pulse thundering in my ears. “I don’t need any more interruptions.”
I should have known he’d find a way to follow me. I knew he was suspicious. I should have cleaned up my killer cave and shown him the room to ease his doubt.
Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?
I don’t want to kill Wren.
“Fucking… monster,” Ryan spits out.
Rolling my eyes, I press my palm to his forehead and shove him backward. “Monsters are survivors, Ryan. You’re the one who got yourself into this mess. I’m just a survivor of this unfortunate situation.”
Wren continues to stand frozen in the open doorway, dumbfounded. “Wren!”
He snaps out of it, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him with an audible slam.
I like this hotel because even though it’s cheap, the walls aren’t paper-thin, and they never ask questions when I book three rooms next to each other. Sound still travels, so when I use their fine establishment, I take the utmost precautions.
“Don’t look so surprised, Songbird. You’ve known for a while, haven’t you?”
Ryan uses the last moments of his life to beg Wren for help, but all he does is stare while I roll my former lover into a life-sized sushi roll with the comforter. It may be old as fuck and scratchy as hell, but it’s thick enough to keep the blood from seeping through to the sheets.
Humming Ten in the Bed , I push Ryan until he topples off the side, landing with a hard thump. “And one fell out!” I finish with a flourish, spinning to face the other man in the room with a vulpine grin.
My man.
Well, he’s not screaming or running for his life. That’s a good sign .
But why would he?
He loves the Doll, and now he knows she’s been near him the whole time.
Still, my muscles ache from how tightly I tense, waiting for him to speak.
Wren blinks from Ryan to me. When he finally admits softly, “I’ve had my suspicions for a while now, yes.” I’m genuinely surprised.
He regards me as I take slow, measured steps toward him, each one in sync with my heartbeat. I can only imagine what’s going through his mind. Is he recalling the times I showed up as the Doll? Is he disappointed to know we’re one and the same?
Wren nailed it when he wrote his last piece about the Doll killing the men she does because she was abused as a child. Did he write it to coax me out of my shell like a scared turtle? Is he really obsessed with her, or has he been trying to uncover her identity all this time for a life-changing exposé?
Thought after thought races through my mind as I approach him. “What now, Songbird?”
Wren reaches for me. I go rigid as his hands settle on my waist, his brows furrowed. The air grows thick with tension, the unknown stretching between us as he asks, “What do you mean?”
His fingers are soft and warm through the thin material of my babydoll—no roughness, no intent to subdue me. His thumbs rub soothing circles along the dip of my waist as he steps into me and—is that?
Looking down, I see he’s hard .
Like, really hard. Straining against his pants, dick-trying-to-fist-bump-me hard.
Arching a brow, I glance back at his face just as a slow smile stretches across his handsome features. “Does watching me incite violence turn you on, Songbird?”
Wren digs his fingers into my waist and lifts me abruptly. My legs lock around him, arms winding around his neck as he murmurs against my lips, “Every fucking little thing about you turns me on, Dove.”
Dove. Not Doll.
Me.
“Besides, I never liked him anyway,” he whispers before crushing our lips together and walking us to the bed.
The fingers that caused death just minutes ago tangle in his hair as a desperate moan escapes from my throat. Wren gently runs his tongue along the seam of my lips, asking for entrance for the first time.
Greedily, I part for him, keeping my tongue glued to the bottom of my mouth so he can explore without feeling overwhelmed. I want to cry at the tenderness with which he lays me on the bed, lowering himself between my legs as they dangle off the side.
“You’ re so fucking perfect,” he whispers against my skin, trailing kisses between my breasts.
“Perfect doesn’t exist, Songbird,” I murmur to the ceiling, raking my nails against his scalp as he shoves up my nightie and presses his warm mouth exactly where I want to feel it the most.
“Yes, it does.” He sucks softly before moving my underwear to the side to run his tongue through my aching center. “I’m tasting it right now.”
The bundle of death on the floor twitches—a chemical reaction that should concern Wren and shove him back into the reality that there’s a dead body on the floor next to us while we get our freak on.
Meanwhile, my nerves feel like they’re melting in euphoric bliss as Wren eats me out like his life depends on it.
Maybe he thinks it does.
Pushing up on my elbows, we lock eyes as he continues licking and sucking with alternating tenderness and wild abandon. “I need to feel you, Wren.”
I don’t have to ask twice. He’s on his feet, his belt and zipper undone in seconds. Wrenley is eight inches of velvet skin, rock-solid pleasure, and enough veins that it looks like his dick is a bodybuilder on steroids. I’ve dreamed of having him inside me since I first saw it outlined in his gym shorts.
Yet, there are still moments when he flinches at my touch. Moments when I pause, ensuring he knows it’s me there with him, not her . So whenever we come close to consummating our relationship, I pull away, pretending I’m not ready.
But he’s ready now.
And I’m so ready, I feel like I’ll burst into a million vaporized particles if he doesn’t fuck me this second.
“Are you sure?” he asks, fingers grazing my jaw reverently as I stroke him. “I don’t have a condom.”
“I don’t care.” I nearly climb him, pushing to my knees as he removes his pants and kneels on the bed, letting me lay him down so I can get on top.
Our limbs tangle in a frenzy, his hands thrusting into my hair while he kisses me. He has to let me go, our height difference making it impossible while I line his cock up with my entrance and lower myself slowly. Wren’s moan cuts through the air as his fingers dig into my skin—that musical, high-pitched, purely sensual sound I love so much.
“Fuck, Turtle Dove, you feel so good.” He helps me ride him, our skin breaking out in a glistening sheen as we rock together slowly but with so much purpose.
I wanted our first time to be monumental—memorable. I suppose having a rapidly cooling body stuffed like a sausage in a prickly, coarse casing next to us fits the bill.
“Yeah?” I ask, pinning him with a heated stare. Using one hand on his chest to anchor myself, I arch my body back as I grind myself on him. We’re a tight fit, and I can feel each and every corded vein as it drags against my walls. “How does it feel to fuck your obsession, Songbird?”
“Like heaven.” He looks me dead in the eyes. “Use me, Dove. Use me in whatever way you want. Every breath in my body and every fragment of my soul… it’s all yours. I belong to you irrevocably.”
He flexes inside me with his beautiful words, eyes screwing shut as he tries to stave off his impending climax. I blink away the tears that try to form, knowing what it costs him to give up control to me.
“Look at me, Wren,” I command softly. He does as I say, and I slow my hips, rolling them with longer, deeper passes. “You don’t have to belong to me. We’re both broken. We can heal together.”
A tear slips from my eye as the dam in my lower body breaks, unleashing a tidal wave of warmth that sends electricity down into my toes.
My mouth opens in a silent cry as Wren comes undone, moaning, “Fuck, I’m coming. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .”
I can feel him pulsing inside me, every ripple spearing me with his release, claiming me as his own. He says he belongs to me, but I belong to him just as much. I’m convinced our souls were meant to find each other in this life. Everything happens for a reason, and this is ours… our way of helping each other heal.
We move together until we’re both spent. I lay my head against his chest, listening as his heart beats in time with mine.
I don’t know how much time passes, but we’re both still shimmering with sweat when he asks, “Do you… need help? With him?”
I flinch.
Way to make it awkward, Songbird.
“I’m sorry.” He immediately reads my body language, grasping my shoulders to try and stop me as I push myself up and get off the bed. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“It’s okay.” Holding a hand up to stop him, I wait until he’s got his pants on. “I got this. The less you’re involved, the better. And your DNA is all over the place now. It’ll take longer if I have to tell you what to do. You’re better off just heading back to the city.”
“Okay,” he says quietly.
“You can’t say a word to Hunter, Wren.” I give him my back, hating how he couldn't just allow a little time for us to be us .
I’m not mad, just… disappointed with the situation.
“I wouldn’t do that, Dove.” Irritation laces his tone, and his warm hand wraps around my bicep, forcing me to look at him. “I’m serious. Your secret is safe with me. But we do need to talk about it.”
It’s a pivotal moment for our relationship. Wren sees and accepts me for who I am, but where do we go from here? Hunter is his best friend. Can I trust him to keep my secret?
“Okay.” I nod curtly. “Good. I’ll see you later then.”
He scoffs a little at the dismissal, flashing me an incredulous look before he lets me go and turns to leave. He doesn’t even make it two steps before he spins back around. “What did you mean? When you said we’re both broken?” He chews on his lower lip, unable to meet my eyes. When I don’t answer—because I don’t want any more secrets between us—he asks, “You know. Don’t you?”
Remaining quiet, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay. Wren nods, taking my silence as confirmation. Sorrow pools through my veins as he turns to leave.
“Wren?” I call out as his hand touches the doorknob. He pauses but doesn’t turn.
I don’t take the opportunity to tell him how sorry I am. People who have been through the things we’ve experienced don’t want pity, even if we share the same sense of loss .
I also opt out of saying that I love him. And I do. I never thought I could love someone as much as I love the man standing across from me. But now isn’t the time. Wren has a lot to process on his drive home. He doesn’t need me throwing that at him as well.
“Drive safe. Will you let me know when you make it back?” I’m proud of how solid my tone is even though I feel myself breaking inside.
With a nod, he leaves, reminding me to lock the door behind him. When he’s gone, I heave a sigh and grab my phone to call Bunny as I cross the room and twist both locks.
As soon as her sleepy greeting echoes through the speaker, I know she’s gonna be pissed I’m pulling her out of bed. “I need a cleanup on aisle three,” I inform her, back to my jovial mood so she doesn’t spend the night pestering me with questions I don’t yet have answers to.
“Cleanup?” Her exhaustion snaps into alertness. “Easys aren’t supposed to be messy, Love Dove. What happened?”
I glance at the floor, where blood finally begins to seep through the blanket. “It’s more than messy,” I sigh, nudging the tuna roll to keep his wounds topside. “It’s Ryan, and we’re gonna need the suits and saws.”