Page 13 of Mourning Wings (Whitmore Legacy #1)

12

VALERIA

R onnie takes a step forward, and that’s when I see a man stepping out of the shadows like a nightmare come to life. In his hand, he’s holding a large knife, the blade streaked with red.

“ What the fuck?” I breathe, my voice trembling.

He doesn’t say a word; he just tilts his head slightly, studying us, as if deciding what to do next. Then , he starts toward us, slow and deliberate, the knife catching the light with each step.

“ Run !” Ronnie yells, grabbing my arm. I don’t need to be told twice.

We take off, our footsteps echoing loudly in the large corridor. The hallway twists and turns, narrowing in places, the old doors passing by in a blur. I glance at them, and a chill runs down my spine.

“ These doors— I saw them on the monitors on Halloween !” I gasp, but there’s no time to stop, no time to think.

The man’s footsteps are growing louder behind us, closer with every second. We turn another corner, but before I can register what’s happening, Ronnie is yanked backward with terrifying force.

“ Ronnie !” I scream, my heart lurching as I see the man pulling her down to the floor.

She hits the ground hard, and the knife in his hand glints as he raises it high. I freeze for a split second, terror paralyzing me, but then I see Ronnie fighting back, thrashing and kicking with everything she has. She manages to pull out her knife, slashing at his arm. Blood splatters everywhere, dark and thick, but it doesn’t stop him. He snarls in pain, his mask slipping just enough for me to see part of a twisted, scarred face.

I watch in horror as the man’s hand clamps down on Ronnie’s throat, squeezing with brutal force. She’s gasping for air, and a wave of helplessness crashes over me. I reach into my pocket, my fingers closing around the kubotan, but I know it’s useless against him.

Desperately , I scan the hallway, my eyes landing on a small ceramic statue on a nearby table. I rush to grab it—a bust of some old figure, heavy and solid in my hand. I turn back just in time to see the man tightening his grip around Ronnie’s neck, her face turning a terrifying shade of red.

“ No !” I scream, running back to them. I swing the statue down with all my strength, smashing it against the back of his head. The impact is sickening, the sound of ceramic shattering mingling with the crunch of bone. Blood sprays as the man bellows in pain, but I don’t stop. I hit him again and again, each blow more savage than the last.

Blood pours from the gash in his skull. His body jerks and twitches, but he doesn’t let go of Ronnie , his fingers still wrapped around her. She’s struggling, clawing at his hand.

With one final swing, I bring the statue down as hard as I can. Shards fly everywhere, and the man’s body finally goes limp. He collapses on top of Ronnie , his blood flooding the floor around us.

I drop the broken pieces of the statue and stumble back, gasping for breath. The man is dead. My heart is pounding so hard, I can barely hear anything else.

I watch as Ronnie pushes the man’s body off her, rolling to her side and coughing, gasping for air. The hallway is eerily silent now, save for the sound of our ragged breathing. The smell of death hangs heavily around us.

As I stand there, trembling, I look down at my hands covered in blood. It drips from my fingers, soaking into the fabric of my pink skirt, staining everything. For the first time in my life, I understand what it feels like to be depraved.

I’ve never come close to killing anyone before, but when I brought that statue down, again and again, something broke inside me. There was a rush—an unexpected high that flooded my veins, a feeling of power that made me unable to stop, even when I should have. It only pushed me further, drove me to keep going until his body was nothing but a broken, bleeding mass on the floor.

And now...

Now , I can’t stop shaking.

I stagger back, choking on air that feels too heavy to breathe. The realization of what I’ve done crashes over me like a wave, and I feel sick. My legs give out beneath me, and I collapse onto the blood-soaked floor, tears streaming down my face.

I’m terrified of what I did, of what I felt, the thrill of it. It’s as if I was living inside the mind of a killer—and for a moment, I liked it.

The thought sends a shudder through my whole body, and I sob, my hands trembling as I press them to my face. The blood smears across my skin, but I can’t stop the flood of tears. I glance down at my clothes, once a soft pink, now drenched in deep red. The color seeps into everything, staining me in ways I’m not sure I can ever wash clean.

“ Valeria ,” I hear Ronnie’s voice, strained and hoarse, but it feels distant, like it’s coming from another world.

“ I couldn’t stop,” I whisper through my sobs. “ I …couldn’t…stop.”

Ronnie crouches beside me, her face pale, still bruised from the fight. She doesn’t say anything; she just wraps her arms around me, pulling me close. I cling to her, my body shaking uncontrollably.

“ Hey ,” Ronnie whispers, holding me tighter. “ You did what you had to. You saved us. Don’t think about it right now, okay? Just breathe.”

After a few moments, I finally gather myself, wiping the blood and tears from my face. My heart is still racing, but I push down the nausea rising in my throat. I can’t fall apart now.

Ronnie helps me to my feet. “ We need to keep moving before someone else finds us,” she says.

I nod and let her lead me away from the crime scene. Each step feels heavier than the last, but I force myself to keep walking. Ronnie’s pace is quick, her eyes scanning our surroundings. My mind is still spinning, but she breaks the silence.

“ So , tell me more about Camila ,” she asks, glancing back at me. She’s trying to distract me.

I swallow hard, trying to focus on the question. Camila . I have to think about Camila , not the blood, not the man I just killed.

“ We —” I clear my throat, swallowing hard. “ She was my first love.”

Ronnie tenses. It’s subtle at first, the way her shoulders stiffen as she walks, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides, but then it deepens. Her jaw tightens. I pause mid-sentence, watching her carefully. This isn’t jealousy— I mean, we just met.

But Ronnie doesn’t acknowledge the change in her demeanor.

We reach the end of the hallway, and we approach a large staircase leading to another floor. The steps look freshly polished, the banister smooth and gleaming. It’s a stark contrast to the nightmare below. This part of the mansion looks like it’s lived in, the doors no longer worn and old.

Ronnie glances around, ensuring no one’s in sight. “ Let’s go.”

We ascend the staircase quietly when I suddenly remember Isabel .

I fumble for my phone, pulling it out of my pocket, my fingers shaking. I check for messages—nothing. My heart sinks: Isabel hasn’t texted me. No keyword. No sign. My stomach twists with panic. Maybe Ronnie was wrong. Maybe she is in danger.

“ What’s wrong?” Veronica asks.

“ Isabel hasn’t messaged me. You said they wouldn’t hurt her, but what if she’s phone-less? What if she can’t text me?”

Ronnie pauses, turning to face me, her expression softening. “ I told you; those guys aren’t going to hurt her. They’re probably just keeping her busy. But I get it—you’re scared. After everything, it makes sense.”

I bite my lip, torn. Part of me wants to run and find Isabel , to make sure she’s safe. But after what we’ve just been through, after what I did… I don’t know if I can do this without Ronnie . I don’t want to do this without her.

I shove my phone back in my pocket and take a deep breath. She’s fine , I try to convince myself.

We continue going upstairs, and when we reach the top, Ronnie picks a door at random, slowly pushing it open.

What we see freezes us in place.

It’s a bedroom, neutral but dark. The walls are a deep, muted gray, with subtle pops of color here and there. A vase of dried flowers sits on a dresser, their petals faded and brittle. But what really catches my eye are the butterflies. Images of them cover the walls, intricately drawn, their delicate wings captured mid-flight. They’re everywhere, on every surface, every wall. The sight of them sends a chill through me.

Mounted right above the bed is a wooden sign, the carved letters spelling out a name in delicate cursive: Camila .

A lump forms in my throat that I can’t swallow down. I feel it like a punch to the gut. This was where she slept, where she lived, where she dreamed.

Ronnie steps inside, her eyes narrowing as she takes it all in. “ This is her room,” she says quietly, like she’s speaking the thought aloud to confirm it for herself.

I don’t answer her. I can’t. I feel frozen, my gaze glued to the name above the bed, my mind reeling. Camila is everywhere in this room—the butterflies, the subtle darkness, the quiet way it all feels like a part of her. It’s almost like she’s still here, haunting the space.

I step further inside, my fingers brushing against the back of a chair by the bed. The wood is cool beneath my skin, and I imagine her sitting there, brushing her hair, silent as ever. The image makes my chest tighten.

Ronnie’s jaw clenches as she takes in the room again. “ I’ve been here before.”