Pretty Broken Dolls (Pretty Little Dolls Series Book 4) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Synopsis

  Epigraph

  DEADication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Ker’s Acknowledgements

  K’s Acknowledgments

  About Ker Dukey

  About Author K Webster

  Ker’s Books

  K’s Books

  Pretty Broken Dolls

  Copyright © 2017 Ker Dukey and K. Webster

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: Word Nerd Editing

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Synopsis

  Epigraph

  DEADication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Ker’s Acknowledgements

  K’s Acknowledgments

  About Ker Dukey

  About Author K Webster

  Ker’s Books

  K’s Books

  Betrayal and rage, a festering sting.

  Monster vs Master. Who will be king?

  Damaged and desperate, a solution they must find,

  To bring back the dolly who is one of a kind.

  Disloyalty and failure will not be forgiven.

  Seeking revenge, the monster is driven.

  Hungry for his affection, our master has waited.

  These broken dollies lives have already been fated.

  The storm is upon us, the chaos raining down,

  Now that the big players have come to town.

  Who will come out breathing with their prize by their side?

  And who will be collateral damage along for the ride?

  To our pretty little dolls,

  Thank you for always coming back for more.

  You take the pain and the abuse and the torment.

  And we enjoy doling it out.

  Yours,

  Monster and Master

  aka

  K&K

  Viktor aka Tanner

  Russia – Age Eighteen

  FLAMES FLICKER FROM THE FIREPLACE heating the room to an unbearable degree. I told Veronika, our maid, not to light the fire tonight, but she did it anyway. She’s getting too old to do her job, but she’s been here longer than I have, so Father won’t replace her. It’s futile to even ask.

  Sweat beads and drips down my back, the room expanding like it’s alive with its own pulse. Nervous energy crackles and pops in my veins. The month is upon us—the time I get to prove myself to our father.

  All Vasiliev men take part in The V Games when they come of age, to prove their worth and position within the family.

  Our name and reputation means everything to our father.

  Yuri Vasiliev.

  His empire in the criminal world is matched by none.

  Trafficking of women, guns, and drugs are all a front—a mask that truly hides what our family does. We delve into the darker depravities of all men and women, and once he gets you wound up in his world, where he’s able to pull your strings and you’ll follow, he never lets go.

  He feeds your urges. You’ll worship him for it. A true puppet master. And I fucking idolize him with every ounce of my being. I want to be just like him, but most of all, I want to gain his respect.

  With his plans to branch out his operation to the United States, I want to be the one he turns to and head the expansion. Wherever Father casts his net, I shall pull in his catch. Because that’s what our family does. We own the world—even if they don’t know it yet.

  Soft footfalls creep across the hardwood floors, but the size of the silhouette looming over the room like a phantom doesn’t match the dainty steps.

  “Vlad, how do you cause such little sound with your movements?” I ask, swiveling my head to see my older brother almost gliding into the room. A motherfucking shadow. Stalking. Lurking. Waiting. Always shrouded in darkness.

  The corners of his mouth curl into a devious smile and his amber eyes that match mine narrow as he studies me intently. Coming to a halt in front of me, he crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles beneath straining against the fabric of his suit.

  “It’s a skill all men like us should master, brother,” he states in a matter of fact tone, a smirk on his dark, stubbly face. Vlad is a spitting image of our father. Tall, well over six and a half feet, and broad shouldered. His nearly black hair is tousled on top, always styled in a way that’s meant to look messy—almost as though he enjoys the small rebellion against Father. Father, with his hair clipped short on the sides to reveal the grey beginning to grow there, wears his same-colored hair slicked back and perfect.

  My brother drops his attention to the arsenal I have prepared—an array of weapons ready for use. Picking up a blade from the kit I’ve laid out on the bed, he runs it across his palm, and a crimson slit swells in its wake.

  “This is a good knife. You should use this one,” he tells me, pulling a small piece of cloth from his pocket and cleaning the blade before wrapping it around his hand to stop the bleeding. “Are you ready for this, Viktor?” There’s not concern in his tone, merely doubt, and that causes anger to build inside my chest.

  “You’ve been preparing me for this my entire life,” I grind out in response, my jaw tightening. “You played in The V Games. It’s a
rite of passage.”

  A vein pops in his neck and his eyes flare for a moment before his features soften. He reaches for me, his palm wrapping around the back of my skull, and brings me forward. My forehead comes to rest on his flexed, muscular shoulder. He’s still at least six inches taller than me, despite my growth over the summer.

  I’m a man now. Yet he’s older. Wiser. And fucking taller. I’m not small by any means, but he always uses my height to mock me when I get under his skin. It’s a weak, predictable move—one I see coming every time.

  He gives me a heavy pat on my shoulder blade then he pushes me back, signaling his moment of brotherly affection is over. My brother is a hard man. Raised with an iron fist, just like me. And at only twenty-two, he’s being groomed to take over our father’s empire—the family dynasty.

  “The first players have arrived,” he says, another smirk playing on his lips. “There’s one in particular I think you’ll like.” He clenches his fist and punches me playfully in the chest.

  I crack my knuckles in anticipation.

  I’ve known about The V Games since I was twelve years old. By fourteen, I was allowed to attend the screenings that aired via a channel buried deep in the dark web.

  At sixteen, I attended the actual event as a spectator. Most boys my age went to soccer matches, and although the arena was just as big—just as impressive with the audience able to attend, bet, watch, root for their players—they were nothing alike.

  Two totally different sets of rules. In The V Games—our games—it’s a competition of brutality and pleasure, feeding the compulsions of the darkest minds.

  The rich and privileged pay to watch.

  The depraved and sadistic pay to play.

  The poor play in hopes they come out victorious, and sell what they catch.

  The rules are simple.

  Hunt or be hunted.

  Kill. Fuck. Or keep the prizes you catch.

  Above all else: survive.

  If you make it through to the end alive, the sky is the limit in terms of your bounty. If you’ve ever had a desire frowned upon by society, The V Games are a place to live it out.

  Preparation for The V Games goes on for months and months. Each player is scrutinized, fully background checked, then valued by the elite members, including Father. These events are as underground as it gets. And they must be handled with the utmost secrecy. The players, attendees, and bidders are from all walks of life, but the post powerful identities need to remain anonymous.

  Growing up, I learned the most powerful people are always the most corrupt, depraved souls roaming the earth. Their need for control is deep-rooted and often requires a darker outlet.

  My father offers them this outlet in abundance, and because of the high profile clients he caters to, he is untouchable by the law, feared by other criminal entities, and most importantly, worshiped by his clientele.

  “Come, Viktor,” Vlad orders. “Eat with us.”

  I leave the weapons out on the bed, hoping Veronika slips while clearing them away and accidently takes her own eye out. Then, maybe, Father would have no choice but to allow her to retire.

  “A woman is still useful with only one eye, brother,” Vlad says in amusement, and it’s then I realize I spoke my thoughts aloud. I must work on my loose tongue and schooling my features so I’m not so easily readable. Vlad always says a poker face can save a man’s life and instill fear in even the bravest of souls.

  “It’s unsettling not being able to read another person’s expression, Viktor, and having that edge could mean the difference between life and death.”

  “Where are the stock?” I ask, ignoring his jab about the maid. I’m eager to see who’s been offered up like meat packets for others to abuse and toy with. Although I’m young, I still like to play with them.

  “Being prepared. You will have your introduction profile created tomorrow. Later, I’ll take you to see one of the girls. She will be fun to hunt and fuck.” His lips curl back in a brief grin before he stalls his features and the stoic haze returns to his face.

  Each player is put before an anonymous panel to determine their worth, then all players’ profiles are available to the spectators. Requests can be made, and a spectator will offer a player money to perform acts for them to watch. This brings stone cold killers to The V Games just for the paycheck and makes people like me and other well-respected family members who are put forward vulnerable to assassination by disgruntled enemies.

  Deaths that occur within the arena for The V Games can not be avenged after, it’s all part of the game. Which makes entering all that more dangerous and admirable with people in the criminal world we live in.

  Vlad’s cell phone chimes from his pocket, and he holds his hand up, signaling he needs a minute. He stalks off in the opposite direction to the kitchen, so I make my way there, curious to see who he referred to when he said join us for dinner.

  The house is unusually quiet compared to how commonly busy it is in the months leading up to The V Games. Father will be preoccupied with the preparations, therefore other business will not be the priority.

  I prefer the house like this. Less coming and going. Peaceful.

  Pushing through the doors, I stroll into the kitchen. The room usually has appliances and other cooking utensils, but it’s currently empty and there is nothing laid out to eat. This must mean Vlad wants to go out to dinner.

  My stomach growls in protest at the idea of waiting. I’ve been sweating out half my body weight in my bedroom with the fire on. I need something to keep me going. Usually when my brother gets a call and needs a minute, the minute turns into thirty. The fridge beckons me, and I find some cold meats inside. Just as I’m closing the door, a body collides into me, knocking the food to the floor as I hurtle into the counter.

  Niko’s body presses against mine, pinning me against the cabinets. “I thought that was you creeping in here,” he growls against my ear.

  I wasn’t creeping, asshole.

  His cock pushes against my ass, and I shove him away from me, spinning to face him. He’s grinning, his chest rising and falling in excitement.

  “So, you’re who’s joining us for dinner?” I sneer, and he advances on me. Rearing back my arm, I launch it forward and hit him with a closed fist to the face. His head snaps to the side, then he slowly brings his gaze back to me. Blood blooms on his bottom lip, the pad of his thumb smearing it before sucking it into his mouth. He smirks. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Fuck you,” I reply, my tone cold like my heart.

  “Why must you always play these games, Viktor? You know I’ll get what we both want in the end.”

  “And what is that?” I demand, already knowing the answer.

  He advances again, and this time, I allow him to push me backwards, my spine crashing against the fridge door. He restrains my arms by my sides, and the need to fight against the hold sizzles under my skin. His crystal blue eyes bore into mine, wanting permission—and that’s where we differ.

  I don’t ask for things.

  I take.

  Leaning into him, I let him feel the hard ridges of my cock against his, then force him away from me with a thrust.

  A girl who’s only been working here a few months enters carrying a tray of empty plates. Her feet stutter to a stop when she sees me. She gives me those doe eyes every time our paths cross and I know her cunt is dripping, wanting me to relieve her ache. I’m a good-looking man. My father always told me our mother passed down her only good gene to us: her looks. I’ve seen pictures of her. She has the same dark brown hair as me. The same fiery blaze within her honey eyes. My features are slightly softer than Vlad’s because I resemble her most.

  She left when I was a boy. I hardly remember her at all. Our father doesn’t speak of her often, and when he does, they’re hateful words spewed out in anger and pain. She is the only weakness I’ve ever seen him have.

  Niko follows my stare and growls for her to leave.

  Her eyes wi
den and her gaze darts between us before dropping to my crotch. My hard cock protrudes against the zipper. The plates clatter when she hurries to place the tray down.

  “Vika,” I call, stopping her in her tracks before she can flee. I only remember her name because it’s the same as our sister’s. Two Vikas under one roof. One a shy, poor maid. The other an outgoing, spoiled rich girl. They couldn’t be more opposite if they tried. Her big, expressive brown eyes lift to mine, and I summon her with a crook of my finger. “Come here.”

  “Don’t play games that will end badly,” Niko warns me.

  But that’s the point. The dark parts of him are what I like, and I welcome the outcome. I fucking crave it.

  Grabbing her by the shoulders, I spin her so her back is to me and she’s facing Niko. I take a knee behind her and lift her skirt. She gasps at my bold action. Her panties are black lace, not the cotton I’d thought she’d wear. Satisfied with this little surprise, I pull the fabric aside, and a sprinkling of curly hair strokes across my fingers. And like I predicted, her cunt is dripping and needy. They always are when it comes to me.

  I slip two fingers inside, pushing past her lips, and the muscles tighten against them. She doesn’t protest like I wish she would.

  “You’re surprisingly tight, Vika. How many lovers have you taken?”

  She groans as I begin a slow tortuous finger-fuck. “Two,” she breathes.

  Not likely.

  “Liar,” I tease, leaning to the side to get a good look at the blazing anger on Niko’s face.

  He doesn’t disappoint. His jaw is gritted so tight, the muscles tick. I watch with amusement as his fist clenches and unclenches.

  This will teach you for playing games with me, asshole. I’m no one’s fool.

  “How many really?” I ask as I finger her, my breath hot against her back.

  “Four,” she breathes. “Only four. I swear it.” Her hands ball up her own dress to give me better access. Little whore.

  “I think I’m going to fuck you, Vika. Right here where we make food, then keep you in my room for when I want to play with you again.”

  She’s gasping, her body leaning forward as she attempts to grind herself against my long fingers. I’m so focused on Niko’s growls of fury, I miss the moment he snaps. He reaches out for her, but it’s so quick, I don’t have time to react.