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Pretty New Doll (Pretty Stolen Dolls #3)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
Benny, broken, hurting, and alone
Have you ever been so lost that you became a shadow? Lurking but not living. Existing in the background where no one notices you.
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For all the little dollies who are sick, sick, sick,
Who demanded more Benny to come quick, quick, quick,
K&K took the hint and began to plot, plot, plot,
And along came the story smoking hot, hot, hot.
Putting fingers to keyboard, they would type, type, type,
With hopes their story lives up to the hype, hype, hype.
So run little dolly to your bed, bed, bed,
And don’t come out until the story is read, read, read.
THE TIGHTNESS OF THE SKIN on my right shoulder pulls, restricting my movements. The phantom pain humming in awareness of past wounds simmers as I bend to snap a blade of grass from the position I’ve been in for the previous four hours.
Situated yards from my old home—our old home—I linger, waiting, knowing, wanting.
Popping the lid from a bottle of water, I gulp down the liquid and pour the remaining dregs over my head, relishing in the reprieve from the heat.
The sun is unforgiving, summoning memories of the first day I ever saw my dirty little doll. She was so young, fresh-faced, perfect.
Pretty little doll.
When the sun would catch the wet strands laced with sweat just right, her hair looked like it had glimmers of gold throughout it. The summer dress she wore clung to her petite structure like a second skin, outlining her perfect little frame.
And then there was her younger sister…
She was stroking her small hands over my works of art, her gasp echoing in the thick air as her arms encircled one of my favorite dolls, clinging to the porcelain perfection.
“Pretty doll for a pretty doll,” I offered in a soft tone.
In unison, their eyes lifted to gaze at me, and my heart thundered in my chest.
The doll was now forgotten as they both studied me grinning down at them.
“She can’t afford the doll,” my perfect little doll barked, narrowing her gaze, but the flush of her cheeks gave her away. She knew right then whom she belonged to, and I knew she was mine.
How easy it was to take what I wanted, and how easily she ruined us years later.
She’s changed so much since then. The years passed too quickly. I didn’t get enough time with her.
The memory fades as a flock of birds take flight from a tree behind the ruins of the house where I wait with the patience I’ve let build over the years. I’ve come so far since the night she killed me.
She didn’t even clean up the aftermath of her treachery. They didn’t even come looking for my remains.
She just left me to die and thought that would be it.
She was so fucking wrong. They both were.
Three Years Ago
“What are you doing?” I ask, my brow dipping as I study her. She looks defiant, something clear and almost peaceful in her eyes. She locked us inside.
“I’m making us face what we’ve done,” she hisses. “We are locked in here to atone.”
Fucking atone? She doesn’t understand. I had to kill Macy. She was broken—too unstable to risk being around her.
I loved her too in my own way. Why doesn’t she understand?
Squeezing my eyes closed, my fists smash against my face to stop the screaming inside my brain.
“But she was broken. We couldn’t fix her,” I tell her through clenched teeth.
She growls back at me. “You’re the fucking broken one, Benny. You. Are. Broken.”
My bones harden, and the blood coagulates inside my veins like cement. “Don’t you dare say that.”
A sob rips through her as her legs wobble. “We have your dad,” she spits out through a rainstorm of tears. “He’s been raping girls for years, and you just let that pervert live. After everything he did to Bethany,” she cries, pointing an accusing finger at me. My eyes hone in on the judgmental digit. It may as well be a knife the way she wields it with the power of its sharp edge.
Bethany was sacred, and she’s using her to hurt me because she’s hurting, but she will learn she doesn’t need Macy. She has me, and we’re all we need. Together, we will be forever.
My father had his uses, but we didn’t need him either. I’d kill him for her, if that’s what it took for her to come home, but it’s all too late. The tide has changed; its undercurrent is too forceful to manipulate.
“He was useful,” I tell her.
“You disgust me,” she bites back, but it’s just the brief anger. It will pass.
“Well, that will change,” I placate, taking a step toward her.
“No,” she snaps, holding her hand up to stop my advance—the hand free of the cuffs once decorating her wrists.
“It ends tonight, dirty little doll,” I warn her.
“You’re right.” She jerks her head and lets out a harsh laugh. “It does.”
Bending down, I retrieve the syringe from my sock.
“What the hell is that?” she demands, gesturing for it as I right myself.