Page 32 of Our Little Dove

I long to feel alive again, to break free from the grip of depression that holds me prisoner. I step out of the car and into the brisk late-afternoon air. I know that as much as I crave the warmth of life I used to have, a part of me wonders if I’ll ever truly live it again if I fail to find my masked strangers.

“Fuck this!” I say to myself as I take one look at my bright red front door, the color reminding me of the men who took all the vibrance from my life and I get back inside my car.

They don’t get to control my emotions. Fuck them!

They don’t get to have their names carved into my body for another fucking second!

They don’t own me. I’m taking my life back.

I turn the key, the engine roars to life again, along with the deafening music and I pull out into the street. I make it to the corner where they left me passed out, bloody and bruised in my car a few weeks ago and my heart feels like it is being crushed bytheir hands. The death of my sanity rests on their shoulders, and I will make sure they regret everything.

I pull up to the nearest tattoo studio and a surge of determination courses through me. It’s time to take back control, to rewrite the narrative of my life.

I step through the door, the smell of green soap and antiseptic hitting me immediately, mingling with the pulsating beat of the music.

The dark-haired man behind the front desk looks up as I enter. He is wearing a black cap with the Behemothlogo embroidered on the front.

He scans my frame from shoes to hair and a flicker of what looks like recognition passes through his jade-colored eyes that nearly causes my lungs to cease mid-breath.

Fuck, this guy is handsome and so tall. He must be at least six feet.

“Hey there, what can I do for you?” he asks, his voice faltering, so slightly, I may have never noticed the change if I wasn’t in this manic, over-sensitive state of mind.

Do I know him? He seems familiar. Have we met before?

I can’t help but feel a pang of familiarity, as if I’ve heard his voice before, but I can’t quite place it amidst the cacophony of sounds filling the studio.

“I need a cover-up, I, um… have scars that I don’t want to remember,” I reply, my voice steady despite the sudden unease raging within me. I drown out the voice inside my head telling me that something is off and continue with my head held high. “I want to cover them with something symbolic that will help me leave the past where it belongs.”

“No problem, why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll see if I have an opening for you before closing,” I say, keeping my tone steady despite my rapidly racing heart.

Alex hesitates for a moment, her eyes darting around the waiting area of the studio. The room is adorned with black leather chairs, perfectly complementing the ornate gothic accents that decorate the walls.

She finally chooses a chair near the large floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun is setting, casting a warm glow on everything it touches.

She sinks into the chair the way we sank our teeth into her soft skin a few weeks ago, her body looks just as delicious as I remember.

As she settles her sexy little ass into my favorite seat, I hurry to the back door. Fintan is likely smoking outside in the small courtyard.

Finally reaching the door, I all but kick it open to find him engrossed in something on his phone. His white hair falls across his brow as he takes a long drag of his joint. Blowing out the cloud of smoke before he glances at me. His piercing golden gaze locks with mine. A flicker of annoyance flashes across his face before he clears his throat.

“What?”

“Guess who just walked in asking for a cover-up. Bet she wants to cover some scars she recently acquired. She didn’t recognizeme,” I say, my voice low and laced with a strange mixture of excited anxiety.

Fintan stubs out his joint on the concrete and straightens up, his expression turning serious. “Alex? You’re sure she didn’t recognize you? You’re positive?” His voice is tinged with disbelief.

I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. “Yeah, can you believe it?”

It’s strange. I sort of missed her after we dressed her in some old clothes and left her in her car that day.

What are the odds?

Does she remember what we did?

No, Fintan assured me that the drugs he gave her would fuck with her memory.

Images of that night flash through my mind—the way Alex’s blood and cum tasted on my tongue, the sound of her gasps and moans. The memory fuels a familiar hunger deep within me, a hunger that she can satiate since I can’t have what I truly crave.

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