Page 24 of Tainted Wings of Failure

I rise to my feet and in about two long strides, reach the door, slipping into the shadows where it will swing open. I glance down at my left hand, which is blue and swollen. It throbs with a dull, persistent pain with every pulse of my heart. Besides that, I've lost all other feeling in it, but I'll make it work. The rope burn around my wrists is raw, with deep lines carved into the flesh and still slick with a faint sheen of blood—the result of frantic pulling against the restraints when I broke free.

Once the door swings open, I remain in my position, hidden in the darkness, waiting for the guy to walk by. He drops the bag of bread and the water bottle as soon as he doesn't spot me. Before he has a chance to call for help, I burst out of hiding, sling my left arm around his throat, and bring my right up to his face, digging my fingers into his eyes so hard they pop.

With a painful groan, the man pushes back, knocking me into the wall. I flinch, let go, put my hands on his shoulders and push him forward, tackling him to the ground. He struggles, but I have the upper hand. The adrenaline dulls the pain radiating from my left hand, and I wrap my fingers around his throat and squeeze, crushing his Adam's apple under my palms. His hands snap to my arms, but I don't let go, squeezing harder and harder, his eyes bulging, the vein in his temple popping. The pulse under my fingertips slows until it fully stops, his limbs dropping to the floor.

It is only when I am sure that he is dead that I let go of him and settle down on his stomach with a heavy sigh. Step one is done.

I pat him down, looking for his gun, and find it in the waistband of his jeans. Idiots, they all are idiots and only strong because they are in a group. Glancing down at the pistol in my right hand, I wrap my fingers around the handle and put one on the trigger, ready to shoot. I'd prefer to use my left hand, my dominant one, but this will have to do for now.

I approach the door with slow steps, lean against the frame and peer out to see if anyone is there, but the hallway is completely empty. Pushing forward, I tiptoe to the next corner and back up against the wall before taking a peek. I have to find the exit. Quickly.

Just before the next turn, loud voices echo through the building, booming through the concrete building. I press my back against the wall, hiding out of sight. A quick glance around the corner reveals two men standing by a door leading to the outside. Looking past them, my eyes fall on the starry night sky. I pause for a moment as the breeze of fresh air wraps around me, allowing my lungs a break from the stench I've been breathing for days.

I close my eyes and take another deep breath. It's now or never. With a big step, I jump out of hiding, raise the pistol, and with perfect aim, shoot. The explosion thunders through the night as the first bullet pierces one of the men's skulls. Blood and brains splatter all over the other one standing next to him.

"Hey!" he yells and whirls around, launching himself in my direction. Pulling the trigger two more times, I fire at him, the bullets hitting his shoulder, and he stops in his tracks, staggering back. "You son of a bitch," he hisses through gritted teeth.

Fuck.

My eyes land on the door where two more men are now blocking my exit. I guess this is going to be more of a fight than I thought. I raise my left hand to the handle and wrap my fingers around my right hand for support, gripping the pistol tight.

Dove, I’m coming home.

Chapter 13

Evelyn

I inhale deeply and take a drag on the cigarette, the burning yet surprisingly soothing nicotine filling my lungs and easing the emotional pain. Personally, I don't like smoking, I've never understood the appeal. But I don't mind it on others, especially Noah, because it's part of him, it's part of his unique smell.

I pull my legs closer to my chest and twirl the cigarette between my fingers, careful not to drop any ash on our sheets. Ever since we moved here, I refused to let him smoke in the bedroom. I would yell at him if he even just hurried across the room to the balcony with one on. But now I miss him being the source of it. I miss him spreading it around the house, leaving his mark.

Resting my chin on my knees, I take one last deep drag on the cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray in front of me. I watch closely as the gray smoke rises from the tip of the cigarette and the tiny embers fizzle out. Then I turn to my nightstand, reach for the glass of whiskey next to the nearly empty bottle, and take a sip. I've been trying to imitate his smell, mixing cigarettes, whiskey, his cologne, but no matter how much I use, it doesn't work; his own unique touch is missing.

Tears well up in the corners of my eyes and I fall back onto the pillows, burying my face in the soft collar of his button-up shirt. The one he wore the day before he left. It doesn't smell much like him anymore, not after I've been wearing it since the day he left for New York, but just the thought of him having worn it me brings me a sense of peace while I’m spiraling further.

I should get up. I should do something, anything. But where do I start? My mind is a maze of panic and confusion, with every thought leading to a dead end down a dark tunnel. The only things helping me calm the raging storm are the familiar taste of whiskey and cigarettes.

The walls of our room close in on me, suffocating in their familiarity. I roll onto my side, grab one of his pillows and wrap my arms and legs around the fluffy cushion. His side of the bed remains untouched, a haunting reminder of his absence. The sheets desperately need to be washed as well, but the thought of washing away the remains of him makes me sick. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and the faint remnants of his scent fill my lungs. My heart flutters, pumping a familiar warmth through my body.

Rubbing my thighs together, the seam of the pillow rubs against my cunt and I let out a soft whine. His intoxicating smell wraps around me like a soft warm blanket and my mind fills with images of him. My breathing quickens, and before I realize what I'm doing, I roll my hips, grinding into the pillow, relishing in the friction of the seam against my clit. My lips part in a quiet moan as I hump the pillow, chasing his scent, chasing the thrill, chasing him.

One of my hands slips between my legs, gripping the pillow and providing more resistance. Loud moans escape my lips as I find the perfect angle pushing against my clit. My other hand slips under my shirt, cupping one of my tits, squeezing the soft bump and pinching my swollen nipple.

My mouth falls open in another loud moan. I flatten three of my fingers to create a firm base for friction and continue my chase. Rocking my hips back and forth into the pillow, I grind into my fingers. I alternate between squeezing my tit and rolling my nipple between my fingers. A series of erratic whines slips from my throat as I hump the pillow in a feverish, uneven and desperate rhythm. Images of Noah flash before my inner eye, of him watching me as I pleasure myself just for him, of him losing his cool and lunging at me, unable to resist his primal instincts and taking me.

After another roll of my hips, a weak orgasm surges through me. My muscles tighten, my whole body trembles, and I clench my thighs around the pillow. The relief of the sensation calms the violent storm in my mind. The thunder dies down to a soft trickle of rain. My muscles loosen and I sink into the sheets, ready to let sleep take over, at least for a little while.

But just as I'm about to drift off, my phone beeps with the familiar notification sound from our surveillance system. I push myself into a sitting position and reach for my phone. The moment the screen flickers to life, I see the time. It's two a.m., it's probably just an animal sneaking around the house, maybe trying its luck with the doves. I still open the app, just in case something really tries to break into the aviary.

The screen jumps to the camera that sent the alert. Seeing what—no, who—it is, my heartbeat quickens and I hurl my phone to the side, leap out of bed, and charge downstairs, tripping over my own feet from the panic boiling inside of me. I slam into the front door, before I reach for the handle and yank it open.

And there he is.

Kyle.

I look him up and down through tear-fogged eyes. His face is battered, a black eye, a broken nose. His arm is resting in a slip. Without saying a word, I push past him, jump down the porch and run down our driveway to where his car is parked, but he is nowhere to be seen. I spin back around and find Kyle who has followed me down the driveaway. His face betrays him; deep lines of guilt, pain and remorse crease his forehead, his eyes dull, having lost all their spark.

"Where is he?" I barely manage to utter the few words through the tears rolling down my cheeks. Kyle tilts his head forward, avoiding my eyes as he remains silent. I lunge at him, slamming my hands into his chest, shoving him back. "Where is he?!" I raise my voice and yell at him, the word echoing through the cold night air.

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