Page 11 of Wicked Dove
“Because they only ever leave The Sanctum in a wooden box.”
THREE
ELODIE
I’m going insane.
Seconds turn into minutes, stretching into hours as I hang high in my floating room, which serves as my prison. Fear has long since turned into hunger.
I’ve checked the door more times than I care to count. Each time is a reminder of the fact that I’m in some kind of alternate universe right now—one where men can turn into black-furred demons in a room that makes no sense.
Replaying those moments in the abandoned warehouse is pointless. No matter what I do, two plus two doesn’t equal four in this equation. I can’t make it add up, no matter which way I look at it. And damn, I’ve been trying.
I just want Walker. He would sort all of this out. Damn, I’d even consider my mother’s help right now, but I’m not getting support from either of them. It’s just me, these four walls, and this goddamn shimmering silver two-piece that’s now haunting me.
A few hours ago, my desperation led me to try and wake myself from this impossible dream, but that hasn’t brought me any luck either. So I’m left sitting at the table, defeat etched into the curve of my spine as I try to hold back my emotions.
That’s the easiest part: being numb. It’s a skill I learned a long time ago, but I never imagined I’d be using it under these circumstances.
Tucking a loose purple curl behind my ear, I sigh, contemplating whether it would be better to just throw myself through the door and let the fall take me.
As if sensing my thought, the door swings open, stealing my breath as a woman saunters into the room.
She doesn’t pay attention to me at first, her gaze is focused on the clipboard in her hands as her lips purse, giving me a moment to gape at her in disbelief.
“How did you get in here?” I blurt, trying to see any kind of sign that she can fly, but she’s shielded by a long white cloak, the kind the science teacher wore in high school. Her brown hair is pulled back into a low ponytail as her unpolished nails tap on the document she holds.
If she heard me, she doesn’t acknowledge it at all.
Irritation claws at my body while defeat and exhaustion launch me to my feet. “Can I leave now? Is that why you’re here?”
Her gaze finally springs to mine, but the glint of disapproval confirms my luck hasn’t miraculously changed. Instead, she stuffs her hand into her oversized pocket to reveal a small pile of clothes. Ignoring me, she places them on the table at my side.
“These are for you,” she explains, returning her attention to her clipboard.
Intrigued, I gloss over the white material. Unfurling the fabric, I realize it’s a tank top and cycling shorts with a pair of ankle socks.
“No underwear?” I mutter, raising an eyebrow in question at her, and she hums, looking up at me through her lashes.
“Isn’t that what you’re already wearing?”
I purse my lips, frustration getting the better of me as I look down at the sequins. Shimmying out of the shorts, I leave my panties on as I change into the cycling shorts, but instead of leaving my bikini top on, I untie the string and let it fall to the floor. My babies need to breathe, and if I’m heading to my impending doom, I won’t be doing it with my breasts confined to a bra.
The second I’m in my new all-white outfit, socks included, I frown.
It’s not my preferred style, but it’s better than having myself on full display in the two-piece.
As I reach down for the bikini top, the hum of what I assume is a razor comes toward me, a moment before I feel the weight of something press against the back of my neck. Top forgotten, I leap back with a screech, eyes wide as I slam my hand over my skin.
“What are you doing with that? You’re not touching my hair,” I snap, glaring at the woman, now much closer and holding a device in her hand.
She rolls her eyes in irritation and attempts to reach for the back of my neck again.
“Leave my tattoo alone,” I bite, visualizing the pretty little dove etched into my skin. Walker has the same one on his forearm, a silent gesture to our friendship. If she erases it from my skin, she’s erasing him, and I won’t allow it.
“You’re dramatic,” she states with a sigh, making me huff.
“And you’re practically mute. A little explanation wouldn’t go amiss.”
