Page 15 of Mourning Wings (Whitmore Legacy #1)

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RONNIE

17 YEARS OLD

T he unfamiliar softness of the mattress beneath me is completely disorienting. The silky sheets tangle around my limbs as I blink in the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains. For a moment, I can’t remember where I am.

Gloomwood had always been so different—everything cold and gray, the walls made of rough, unyielding stone, the constant sound of the sisters shuffling outside our doors. There had been the ever-present hum of the other girls’ chatter, muffled but never absent, but here, in the Whitmore mansion, there’s nothing but silence. Too much silence. The stillness seeps into me, amplifying the loneliness I’ve carried since arriving here months ago. This place, no matter how beautiful, makes me feel hollow, like I’m slowly fading into the background.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes, willing myself to shake off the remnants of sleep. The orphanage had been harsh, but it had been full of life, noisy and chaotic. This house, however, feels like a museum, grand but devoid of any warmth. It’s as if I’m merely a piece of art, meant to be seen but not touched, not understood. I feel like a ghost wandering through halls that don’t belong to me.

And despite their smiles and polite words, the Whitmores don’t see me either. I know they adopted me—like they adopted Theodore , Maxwell , and Julian —for the sake of appearances. We’re just part of the decor, another set of trophies they can show off when the moment suits them. The boys seem fine with it. Maybe they’re used to being invisible.

I , on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about Valeria . She’s like a wound that refuses to heal, an ever-present ache. The look on her face when I left Gloomwood behind is etched in my mind, as if branded there. The shock and hurt in her eyes, the betrayal when I was taken away... I didn’t have a choice, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing I had. I left her, and that guilt gnaws at me more than the quiet ever could.

Sliding out of bed, I let my feet sink into the plush carpet. Everything here is too perfect and delicate, but it only makes me feel more out of place. I can’t help but sigh as I pull on a sweater. What’s the point of all this luxury when it feels like a gilded cage? Even my adoptive brothers don’t care about me, and I don’t care about them. I’ve never been around boys before, so I avoid them as much as possible—except for the forced dinners or outings. They laugh, joke, and seem comfortable here, but I see through it. Beneath the surface, there’s something off.

I drag myself downstairs for breakfast, already dreading the routine. Mr . Whitmore is seated at the head of the long dining table, hidden behind his newspaper, while Mrs . Whitmore talks quietly with the housekeeper. It’s always the same stifling politeness, formal and distant.

They glance up as I enter.

“ Camila ,” Mr . Whitmore says without much interest, gazing over the rim of his glasses. “ We’re having a party at the house this evening. I’m sending you and your brothers away for the night with Mrs . Deering . She’ll look after you in the guest house.”

I’ve only seen the guest house from a distance while wandering the estate. It’s smaller, tucked away, hidden among the trees. Once , I saw the boys coming out of it. I’ve always wondered what goes on inside there, but I’ve never been curious enough to investigate. Now , I suppose, I’ll finally find out.

I nod and take my usual seat at the table. Breakfast looks perfect as always—flawlessly arranged, the kind of meal you see in magazines—but I barely touch it. I can’t stop thinking about Valeria . Without her, everything feels so pointless. She was my anchor, my tether to the world, and now, I’m floating aimlessly through life.

After our meal, I retreat to my room, pulling out my sketchbook. I lose myself in drawing like I always do, letting the familiar motion of my pencil on paper soothe me. Butterflies fill the pages. I can’t help it—they remind me of her. We often used to talk about them, how free they were, how weightless. Drawing them makes me feel close to her, even though we’re worlds apart now.

By the time evening arrives, I’ve sketched page after page of delicate wings and intricate patterns. Mrs . Deering knocks on my door, reminding me it’s time to head to the guest house. I pack my things and toss my sketchbook into my bag, and as I sling it over my shoulder, I don’t notice my pencil slipping to the floor.

Downstairs , the Whitmores are busy with preparations for the party. I pass through the foyer, catching fragments of their conversation with a woman scribbling notes. Mr . Whitmore’s voice is low but sharp as he says something that sends a shiver through me.

“ Make sure the basement is ready. And make sure no one goes down there, do you understand?”

I didn’t even know this place had a basement. I shake off the uneasy feeling creeping up my spine. It’s none of my business. Still , the way he said it sticks with me as Mrs . Deering leads us outside.

Dinner at the guest house is a quiet affair. The boys retreat to their rooms afterward while Mrs . Deering fusses over the dishes. I head to my temporary bedroom, unpacking my sketchbook and reaching for my pencil, only to realize it’s missing. Groaning , I retrace my steps in my head, realizing I must’ve dropped it back at the mansion.

For a moment, I debate whether to sneak out and retrieve it. It seems risky, but I hate leaving things unfinished. If I hurry, no one will even notice I’m gone.

Slipping out the back door, I dart into the woods. The mansion looms ahead, imposing and dark. As I approach, something catches my eye—a man wearing a white mask, slipping out of a door I’ve never seen before.

Curiosity takes over and, instead of heading to the main entrance, I creep toward the mysterious door and slip inside just before it closes.

A narrow set of stairs spirals down into darkness, and I descend slowly, each step making my heart pound louder. At the bottom, I find myself in a room filled with monitors—dozens of screens showing different parts of the house. My stomach twists as I step closer, watching the guests mingling and drinking. Another screen grabs my attention—it features a large room with a stage in the middle, surrounded by chairs.

Masked figures drag a woman onto the stage, her body weak as she struggles. I gasp, my blood running cold as they tie her to a chair. What the hell is this?

I step back, panic seizing my chest. I need to help her. I race down the corridor and see double doors at the end of the hall. That must be where she is. Without hesitation, I sprint toward them, flinging them open.

My body tenses when the masked man on the stage jerks the woman’s head back by her hair. Her mouth falls open as she gasps for air, her eyes wide and glazed with terror. Blood drips down her face from the gash on her head. I can’t breathe— I can’t even blink. My heart hammers in my chest as I watch in horror, rooted to the spot. My legs scream at me to move, but I’m frozen, staring as the man pulls out a knife. He’s going to kill her.

Do something!

Adrenaline surges through me, snapping me out of my stupor. I let out a strangled scream, rushing forward. “ No ! Stop !” I don’t even know what I’m doing— I just know I can’t watch this woman die. I charge toward the stage, but before I can reach him, someone grabs me from behind, yanking me back with brutal force. My body jerks and I thrash against the strong arms holding me. “ Let me go!” I scream, kicking and twisting as hard as I can. The man’s grip tightens, but I’m frantic.

The man on stage sneers at me from behind his mask, his hand still twisted in the woman’s hair. She whimpers, her voice faint and broken. “ No , please…” Her words are cut off as the knife presses to her throat.

My scream rips through the room as I throw my foot back with every ounce of strength I have, aiming for my captor’s groin. I connect hard, and the man behind me grunts in pain, his grip loosening just enough for me to get away.

I stumble forward, dodging the hands reaching for me. Masked men close in on all sides, but I’m too fast. I duck under one man’s arm and dart toward the door. My heart pounds in my ears as I push through, slamming it behind me.

Outside , the air is cool and sharp, and I gulp in a deep breath, my chest heaving. I can’t stop running. I hear footsteps behind me, heavy and fast. They’re coming.

I break into a sprint, my feet pounding the ground as I race toward the trees. My lungs burn, my legs screaming with every step, but I don’t dare look back. I just need to reach the woods, where I can disappear into the shadows and find a way out.

Out of nowhere, a force slams into my back, and I go flying, crashing into the ground hard. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and for a moment, I can’t move. My face presses into the dirt, filling my mouth as I gasp for air.

Hands grip my shoulders, flipping me over. My head spins as I blink at the figure above me, my heart sinking into my stomach.

It’s Mr . Whitmore .

He’s not wearing a mask, but the cold, empty look in his eyes is worse than anything I could’ve imagined. He looks down at me, his lips curling into something like a smirk. “ You shouldn’t have seen that,” he says, his voice calm—almost too calm.

I open my mouth to scream again, to beg, to say something, but before I can, I feel a sharp sting in my neck.

“ No —” I gasp, but it’s too late. The drug floods my veins, and my limbs go numb. My vision blurs as I struggle to keep my eyes open, but the darkness is too strong, pulling me under.

The last thing I hear is Mr . Whitmore’s voice. “ You never should’ve come here, Camila .”

I wake up to blinding light, the kind that burns through my eyelids and makes me wince. Slowly , I force my eyes open, but the room around me swims in and out of focus.

Where am I ?

I try to piece it together, but all I get is fragments. It’s like someone ripped out entire chunks of my memory, leaving me hollow. My name… What’s my name ?

I look down at my body. My arms are tangled in tubes. IV lines snake out from my hands, pumping God knows what into my veins. My heart starts to hammer in my chest, my breathing coming in short, ragged bursts. Why am I hooked up to all this? Panic grips me like a vice.

“ Hello ?” My voice is hoarse, weak, like I haven’t used it in days. I clear my throat and try again, louder this time. “ Is anyone there?”

No response.

I struggle to sit up, tubes tugging at my skin, and the sharp pain that shoots through my arm makes me gasp. My head spins, but I grit my teeth and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The cool metal of the IV stand clinks as I move, sending my pulse racing.

I can’t stay here. I don’t know where here is, but something deep inside tells me I need to leave.

The moment I decide to act, my hands move on instinct, ripping the IVs out of my arms with a wince. Blood wells from the punctures, a small line running down my wrist, but I ignore it. I tear off the patches on my chest and the oxygen tube hooked to my nose, the beeping of the machines escalating into a sharp alarm.

I push myself off the bed and immediately collapse.

My legs give out from under me, a surge of dizziness overtaking my senses. I hit the cold floor hard, and pain explodes through my head as my skull feels like it’s being split in two. I curl up, clutching my temples, trying to stop the world from spinning, nausea churning in my stomach.

I lie there for what feels like hours, every second dragging on, the pain searing through me. I don’t know how long it takes, but eventually, the spinning stops enough for me to move. I force myself to sit up, bracing a hand against the floor, fighting to stay steady. My body feels all wrong, like I’ve been asleep forever, my muscles weak and brittle. How long have I been here?

I look around the room—no windows, no personal belongings, just sterile, cold surfaces. There’s no file, no chart hanging from the bed, nothing that tells me who I am or what happened.

I crawl to the door, pulling myself up by the handle and carefully cracking it open. The hallway outside is long, stretching out into an unfamiliar maze of white walls. There’s no sign of where I am.

I step out, but my body is sluggish, every movement slow and uncoordinated. I stumble forward, wincing as my bare feet hit the cold floor.

I hardly make it ten feet when I see two guards down the hall. They spot me, and panic hits like a freight train. I turn and run.

“ Hey ! Stop !” one of them shouts.

I don’t look back. My legs are weak, barely holding me up, but I push through the burning in my lungs, the stabbing pain in my head. The air rushes against my face, my hospital gown flapping wildly as I bolt down the hallway.

I find a side door at the end of the corridor and slam through it, bursting outside into the open air. The cold hits me like a slap, my breath visible in the night.

I dash into the trees, the ground beneath me turning rough and uneven.

Branches whip at my face, sharp cuts opening on my skin as I weave through the forest. My heart pounds in my chest, echoing in my ears, but I don’t slow down. I can’t. The guards are still behind me, their shouts growing closer.

My feet are bare, every rock, every twig, digging into the soles, but the pain is nothing compared to the fear driving me forward. Then , I step on something sharp, and agony shoots through me. I scream, stumbling forward, my legs almost giving out, but I keep going.

I glance back as my foot catches on something—a root, maybe—and I fall. My body slams into the hard ground, my head cracking against a rock. Pain explodes behind my eyes, white-hot and searing.

I try to get up, to crawl, but my limbs refuse to obey. Darkness seeps into the edges of my vision, swallowing me whole as the guards’ footsteps grow louder. They’re close now, their voices just above me.

And then, everything goes black.

I wake to the sound of rustling leaves and the cold bite of the ground beneath me.

My body feels heavy, weighed down by pain.

Slowly , I blink against the fog clouding my vision. The forest comes into focus—dark trees loom over me, their branches creaking as they sway in the night air.

I turn onto my back, wincing as a sharp pain stabs through my skull. The movement sends another wave of nausea rolling through me, and I clamp my eyes shut for a moment, trying to breathe through it. My head feels like it’s splitting open, the dull throb now a searing ache, making it almost impossible to think.

When I finally open my eyes again, the moon stares back at me, huge and impossibly bright, hanging high above the trees. Its silver light cuts through the darkness. I wince, squinting against the glare drilling into my skull. It’s beautiful, but it hurts. Everything hurts.

I try to move, to lift my arm, but my body is heavy, like I’m sinking into the ground. Every inch is a struggle.

My breath hitches as I reach up to touch my head. My fingers graze a large, wet gash near my forehead, and pain flares so violently, I can’t stop the scream that rips from my throat. It echoes in the quiet of the forest, and I immediately regret it.

Shit .

I freeze, terror settling in. What if the guards heard me? What if they’re still looking for me?

But the forest remains silent, save for the wind. No footsteps, no voices. No one comes for me.

I drop my hand and glance down at my fingers, blood smeared across my skin. Tears spring to my eyes, hot and stinging, and before I can stop them, they spill down my cheeks. Everything hurts so much. My body feels broken.

The pain, the fear, the exhaustion—they’re all too much. I close my eyes, crying silently, and I wonder why the guards left me here in the first place. Why didn’t they take me? Did they think I was already dead? Or maybe they just didn’t care.

A small, fluttering movement catches my attention, and I slowly open my eyes. A monarch butterfly floats down from the dark sky, its orange-and-black wings illuminated by the moonlight. It’s surreal, like something out of a dream. I watch, mesmerized, as it drifts closer, landing delicately on my knuckle, its wings fanning out, soft as silk against my skin.

For a moment, the world seems to still, and a strange, quiet peace washes over me. My breath steadies, the tears slowing.

I shut my lids again. This time, it’s not out of pain, but something gentler.

For just a moment, I feel okay.

When I wake again, the world around me is softer. The sky is tinged with pale pinks and grays, the air cool and damp from the night. My head still throbs, though not as violently as before, and I can hear my own shallow breathing. The scent of pine and soil is sharp in the air, but something else cuts through it—a faint smell, like clean linen or soap.

I blink, and suddenly, I see someone.

A woman is hovering above me. My heart lurches, and instinctively, I try to move. Panic flares in my chest, and I let out a startled gasp. I struggle to push myself back, and the pain surges in response.

“ Shh …it’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you,” she whispers, her voice calm. She reaches out and gently grabs my hand. “ You’re safe now. I’m just trying to help.”

I want to believe her, but the fear is still there, tightening my throat. My body aches with every breath, the pounding in my head almost unbearable. I can’t find the words to respond. All I can do is stare at her, wide-eyed, chest heaving, as my body trembles uncontrollably.

The woman shifts her weight, crouching down beside me. “ Can you stand?” she asks, her grip firm as she helps lift me off the cold ground. I try to push myself up, but my legs feel like they’re made of lead. She supports me, easing me to my feet. My head spins again, and I sway, nearly collapsing, but she holds me steady.

“ I’ve got you,” she says softly. Her touch is careful, her hands strong as they keep me from falling again.

I’m barely on my feet when she reaches into her bag and pulls out a small syringe. The moment I see it, panic rips through me. My heart kicks into overdrive, and I thrash, shoving her away with what little strength I have.

“ No ! Don’t !” I cry, my voice coming out raw and broken.

She grabs my arm. “ It’s just to help. I promise.” Her voice remains calm, though more urgent now. “ This is just pain medication. You’re hurt, and I need to treat you, okay?”

I keep struggling, my breath ragged, but my body’s giving out. I’m too weak, and my mind is screaming in every direction. Still , something in her voice makes me want to trust her.

She meets my eyes. “ I’m Rachel . I’m part of a group that rescues women in danger. I’m on your side, I swear.”

I hesitate, but what do I have to lose at this point? I’m too exhausted to fight anymore. I relax just enough for her to pierce me with the needle. The sharp prick stings, but it’s nothing compared to everything else.

“ Good ,” Rachel murmurs as she finishes. “ It’s going to help with your injuries. You probably have a concussion, but this should dull the worst of it.”

I wait, not sure what to expect, but after a few minutes, a warm numbness starts spreading through my limbs. The sharp edge of pain in my head dulls, just enough for me to breathe again without wanting to scream. I feel strong enough to stand on my own.

Rachel slips an arm around my waist, supporting my weight as we start walking. My legs are still shaky, and I lean heavily on her, but it feels good to move again, even if every step makes me dizzy. The trees thin out ahead, and I catch glimpses of an open road, an old truck parked nearby.

“ How old are you?” Rachel asks, her voice soft as she guides me forward. “ What’s your name?”

I open my mouth to answer, but the words don’t come. Instead , a knot tightens in my chest. “ I … I don’t remember,” I finally manage. “ I don’t know who I am. I only remember waking up in a room, and…” I hesitate, the memory flooding back, bringing fear with it. “ Two men. They were chasing me.”

Rachel’s face darkens. “ Two men?” Her grip tightens slightly on my arm. “ We’ll take care of it. You won’t have to worry about them anymore, I promise.”

As we walk, Rachel glances down at my wrist. “ What’s this?” she murmurs, lifting my arm gently.

I look down, too disoriented to have noticed it before: a bracelet—a hospital band, maybe—wrapped tightly around my wrist. It’s blank, except for a single date printed on it: November 3, 1998.

Rachel studies it for a moment. “ That must be your birthday,” she says quietly. “ It’s all we’ve got to go on for now.”

My birthday. It doesn’t feel like much, but it’s something, a small piece of the puzzle.

We step out of the forest, the sunlight breaking over the horizon in soft rays. The truck looms ahead, an old beat-up vehicle with dust coating its sides. Rachel helps me to the back seat, where two other young women wait. They immediately reach out, helping me get comfortable.

“ Welcome to Solace ,” Rachel says softly as she closes the door behind me.

A few months later, Solace has become my home. After finding me almost dead in the forest, Rachel brought me to the underground headquarters. The physical wounds healed quickly, but my head took longer. The concussion was bad, and I spent weeks with my brain wrapped in fog, my thoughts stumbling over themselves as I tried to piece together fragments of a life I didn’t even remember.

But now, I’m whole again—physically, at least. I don’t get dizzy anymore, and the headaches are gone. But despite all the healing, I still can’t remember. I don’t know who I was before waking up in that sterile room with those men chasing me. No matter how hard I try to push through the haze, nothing comes.

I don’t know my real name. I don’t remember where I grew up, what my family was like. I can’t even remember what the men who were after me looked like. Their faces are shadows in the back of my mind, blurry and unrecognizable.

Sometimes , I wonder if I ever mattered to anyone. It has been months since I escaped that place, and there hasn’t been a single missing person report or news article mentioning me. No searches, no flyers, no pleas for help from a frantic family. Nothing . Whoever I was before, it seems like no one’s looking for her.

Part of me wonders if I ever had a family at all. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I was just another lost girl no one cared about. Or worse—maybe whoever they were wanted to get rid of me, and they succeeded. I’m gone.

So , I gave myself a new name. It started when Rachel asked what I wanted to be called, and I had nothing. No memories, no identity, just this empty space where a person was supposed to be. I named myself after something I’d always loved: horror films. They’re a comfort somehow, even in the middle of this nightmare I’m living in. I don’t remember anything about my past, but I do remember loving the movie Verónica .

So , I became Ronnie .