Page 40 of Tainted Wings of Failure

"I don't know. I've never told anyone about this part of my life." I close my eye, drape my arms over her shoulders, and bury my face in her hair, inhaling the soothing scent of her shampoo.

"Why don't I show you?"

"What do you mean by that?" I pull back and look down at her.

"I'll tell you about my childhood, how I got into killing, how I left, simply show you that it's not so scary to be honest and vulnerable with the person you supposedly love." She looks up at me with a reassuring smile on her lips.

"We can try that," I say with a sigh.

"Good,” she says and dives right in. "You know my birth parents abuse substances, right?"

"Yes, they have binders full of police reports." I nod and she chuckles in response. The information about her parents were some of the first details I found when I looked her up for the job a year ago.

"Well, as you can imagine, they always put their addiction before me. The older I got, the worse it got… They neglected me for most of my life, but eventually it turned into abuse if I wasn't useful to them and provided money for their drugs. As soon as I turned eighteen, I moved out, wanted to break the cycle of bad decisions and started working in this bar, which obviously led to the polar opposite." She pushes herself to her feet and sits down next to me on the bed. "I was young and naive, fresh meat. It was easy for my first client to seduce me with the promise of a shitload of money that I desperately needed."

"How did you feel the first time you killed someone?" The question rolls off my tongue without a second thought. It’s more than just curiosity—I want to hear that at least some part of us is the same, that maybe we’re not so different after all.

"I was terrified, but it was also exciting; the power was intoxicating. After so many years of feeling helpless, I was in control, so much so that it became a form of drug for me." She reaches for my hands. "One day the organization I was a part of approached me because I was doing these kinds of jobs in their territory. They offered me to join them, I agreed, and they trained me. From then on, everything was perfect. I made a lot more money and felt powerful. I was more skilled, and I didn't have to prostitute myself and sleep with my targets to get them to let their guard down." Her palms turn sweaty as her hands begin to tremble in mine at the revelation that she had to sleep with her targets.

"If you felt so good, why did you want to give it up?" I furrow my eyebrows.

"The thrill wore off and what I had always wanted for my life caught up with me. I was lucky that the boss had a soft spot for me and was kind enough to let me go, under certain conditions." She leans against me and rests her head on my shoulder.

"These conditions are?"

"That I get away from this lifestyle as far as possible."

"Well, you failed at that…" She chuckles at my comment and bumps into me.

"It’s your fault," she says with a smile. "I hope you still think of me as your Little Dove."

"You are…" I lean my head against hers. "Despite everything, you're still a kind and caring person."

"Thanks to my friends. They couldn't save me, but they taught me what it could look like, what it could feel like. I lived two completely different lives side by side for years, experiencing the best and the worst of humanity.”

"And you're teaching me now, huh?"

"I try." She tilts her head to plant a kiss to my cheek. "Do you want to give it a shot? We can take it step by step and stop anytime you feel uncomfortable."

Suddenly the room feels smaller, the air thicker. I glance down at my hands, fingers rubbing together nervously, before I look back up at her. I remain silent, trying to find the right words, the right way to start, since I've never actively talked about it. "How much do you know about my time in foster care?"

"Not much. All I know is from the official records Riley found last year, including that you were abandoned outside a hospital, the foster families you lived with, some school records, and of course the fact that you were emancipated at sixteen."

"Okay, that means the basics." I pull away from her, putting some distance between us, and take a deep breath before continuing. "I'm going to start by clearing something up. The first time I killed wasn't for money like I told you in the past. I killed my foster mother and one of my abusers."

Her eyes widen in shock. "You killed your foster mother? Why?"

"She had it coming after all she put me through," I say, my gaze drifting to her neck, her muscles pulsing as she swallows.

"Do you feel comfortable telling me what she did?"

"Let’s just say she allowed grown men to do whatever they wanted to me. Any form of abuse, torture, or rape—they could act out their darkest fantasies as long as they paid." As the words roll off my lips, memories stored deep in my mind push to the surface and the taste of bile follows, itching my vocal cords, but I swallow the urge to vomit. Instead, I focus on Evelyn as she sits in front of me, her eyes bloodshot, bulging as a veil of tears settles over them and her jaw slack.

"Is that why you castrate all the men before you kill them?" she asks, and I raise my eyebrows at her question.

"Of all the reactions you could have had, your brain went there first?" I can't help but smirk.

"I…I'm sorry." She trips over her words. "My brain is short-circuiting and I don’t know how to react." She blinks away the small tears that are gathering in the corners of her eyes and scoots closer to me. "And I guess that's something I've always been curious about, because as a man, don't you sympathize with pain when you see it?" She chuckles nervously.

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