Page 5 of Mourning Wings (Whitmore Legacy #1)

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RONNIE

Present

I step into my office, slipping into the small adjoining room, closing the door behind me. The space is dimly lit, most of the light coming from the array of screens lining the walls. Each monitor displays multiple different camera feeds. The humming sound of my computers instantly offers me comfort, a constant buzz I’ve grown accustomed to.

I walk to the control panel, its surface cluttered with buttons, plus a joystick for navigating the cameras.

The air is thick with heat, making the room feel like a sauna. I reach for the air conditioning unit mounted on the wall. It’s an old model, but it gets the job done.

With a flick of my wrist, I turn it on, and the machine sputters to life, emitting a cool blast that cuts through the warmth. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the relief as the cool air washes over me.

With my coffee in hand, I sit back on my chair, the screens flickering slightly as I adjust the controls, zooming in on one of the live feeds to get a better look. I’ll be stationed here for the next few hours.

For the past several weeks, this has become a ritual for me.

Every day, I open the door, turn on the lights, power up the machines, and watch her.

Across the many monitors, I observe Valeria walking around her apartment.

It’s six a.m. As usual, she never misses her alarm. It’s almost as if she has been trained to jump out of bed as soon as she hears the first ring.

I was never a morning person until I met her. Met is a strong word, but it’s all the same. I feel like I know her from the countless hours spent in front of these screens, memorizing each beat of her breath when she sleeps, every step she takes, the noises she makes.

On more than one occasion, I’ve caught her in bed touching herself, wearing those slutty pajamas, her taut nipples protruding through the thin fabric. She always looks annoyed when she does, as if she doesn’t want to be doing it, as if it’s something bad. But as soon as the tips of her fingers reach her center, her body slackens, and she gives in to the feeling.

When she becomes frantic, overcome with sensation, she’ll turn onto her stomach to find more friction, more purchase, shoving her blanket between her legs or humping a pillow.

I’ve watched her bring herself to orgasm on many occasions, the need to jump through the screen and nip at her clit almost unbearable.

Just thinking about it makes me want to spread her juicy thighs open so I can feast on her for breakfast. My center throbs at the thought.

I shake those thoughts away and attempt to focus.

I’ve been watching Valeria for a few weeks now, but it feels like an eternity.

Every day, I observe her through these screens, learning her routines, her habits, how she interacts with others.

Her days always start the same: wake up, shower, get ready for work, have breakfast, leave. It’s so mundane, so one-dimensional.

But I get a kick out of it.

My life is the opposite.

Every waking moment is consumed by a singular purpose: revenge.

I don’t remember much of my childhood. It’s like trying to grasp smoke—just fragments, distorted images that slip through my fingers whenever I try to piece them together. Sometimes , I have these twisted and vile nightmares that make my skin crawl. I don’t know if they really happened to me or if my mind is just playing cruel tricks. All I can clearly recall is being eighteen years old, waking up in a place I didn’t recognize, hooked up to machines. I felt like a caged animal, terrified, confused, and completely alone.

I didn’t understand what was happening, but I knew I had to get out. So , I ripped the tubes out of my arms and ran. I didn’t know where I was going, just that I had to get away.

That’s when I met Rachel , the head of the Solace Network . They don’t like to call themselves vigilantes, but that’s exactly what they are. Since then, I’ve spent my life helping women like me, by taking down the bad seeds of society one by one. It’s not an easy path, but it’s the only one I know.

I’ve dedicated myself to uprooting the predators among us, the terrible people who deserve nothing but death. And the Whitmores are next.

The family has been on my radar for a while now, ever since I first heard whispers about them from my underground contacts. It was always the same story: multiple women dead, their bodies discovered in various places over the years, and somehow, the Whitmore name was always attached. Whether it was near their estate, or the victims had been last seen at one of their extravagant parties, the connection was undeniable.

But despite the glaringly obvious link, they were never once investigated. Not officially, anyway. Call it white privilege or whatever, but the Whitmores always seemed untouchable, never facing the consequences of their actions.

The thought makes my blood boil, and I can feel my jaw clenching as I lean back in my chair. The leather creaks under my weight, a familiar sound that usually brings comfort, but tonight, there’s a tightness in my chest that won’t ease. I can’t shake the feeling that this goes deeper than just a series of unfortunate coincidences.

When I first started digging into the Whitmores , I thought it was just another quest—just another job. But the more I uncovered, the more I felt drawn to them, as if this mission was somehow personal. As if this one hit closer to home than any other before. But why?

My mind drifts for a moment, but I snap my attention back to the screen in front of me.

There’s something about Valeria that draws me in, something that makes it hard to look away. I’ve grown attached to her. It’s unconventional, feeling a strange sense of connection to someone who doesn’t even know I exist. Though , she kind of does now…

Each time I see her, I feel a pull, a magnetic attraction I wish I could resist. I don’t understand it.

But I can’t afford to be distracted. My focus needs to remain sharp, my mind clear.

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I zoom in, focusing on Valeria’s face, her eyes. Despite her bright exterior, there’s something cold and calculating about her, a darkness that matches my own.

I don’t know how she’s linked to the Whitmores , but every piece of information I gather, every detail I uncover, brings me closer to Valeria . Every moment spent thinking about her is a moment I might miss something important. I’m caught in a struggle between duty and desire.

Valeria stops in front of her long mirror and stares at her reflection.

Her long, honey-blonde hair cascades down her back in soft waves, catching the faint sunlight creeping in through the curtains, making it shimmer against her tanned skin. She’s the image of a fucking goddess.

She drops her shorts first, followed by her top, and stands in front of the mirror, her breasts free, nipples pierced, her round ass hugged by her panties.

Fuck .

I settle deeper in my seat and sling my head back to stare at the ceiling. Letting out a huge breath, I squeeze my eyes tight as the constricting feeling in my chest grows.

The attraction is undeniable, but I fight against it, reminding myself of the gravity of my task. I can’t let my feelings for her cloud my judgment.

But I can’t fucking help it.

When I open my eyes, Valeria reaches up, lightly touching the pendant hanging around her neck, her fingers brushing over the delicate necklace. Her dark brown eyes focus on the reflection, a soft smile spreading across her lips.

It has been three days since I ran into her at the party, and she has been wearing it ever since.

I still don’t fully understand why I felt the need to give her that chain, why it seemed so important she have it.

I wore it every day. It’s one of the few things I kept from my past, a small reminder of a life that once was.

But seeing Valeria wear it fills me with a sense of contentment.

She finally turns away and steps into the bathroom.

I had the decency to not put cameras in there, despite every ounce of me craving to see her shower.

The thought of invading her privacy in that way is a thin line I’m close to crossing as my mind is filled with images of her under the water.

I imagine the drops glistening down her skin, the way they would trace every curve and contour of her body.

The desire is overwhelming, a fierce pull I struggle to resist.

I want to witness the water sliding down her back, her wet hair clinging to her neck.

I can almost taste it, the urge to lick each one off her skin strong, to savor the sensation of being close to her.

Shaking my head to get rid of the tempting thoughts, I turn away from the monitors and rub my temples. I need to get a grip.

I think back to the night I saw her at the Halloween party.

After watching Valeria and her friend disappear, I turned on my heels and walked deeper into the forest, dead leaves crunching under my boots.

I shivered as the chill penetrated me.

I knew my way around those woods, since I’d been keeping an eye on the Whitmores . Once I caught onto what they’d been up to, I learned the ins and outs of the property.

When I reached my bike, I opened the compartment and pulled out my leather jacket, zipping it all the way up. Out of habit, I reached for my butterfly pendant, wanting to make sure it didn’t get caught in the zipper, but it wasn’t there.

Right . I had slipped it inside Valeria’s pocket when I found her in the basement.

My newest affliction.

I spent hours digging into her background. To my surprise, I didn’t find much. She was an orphan who had spent most of her life at Gloomwood Sanctuary until she was of legal age. Then , she went to Ashbury College to study Forensic Psychology while bunking with her best friend, Isabel , who was also an orphan. Now , she lives on the East Side in her own apartment, working as a forensic associate with the Ebonridge Police Department .

But if I was sure of anything that night, it was that she wasn’t going home. She’d be sleeping at her friend’s house, as she usually did.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were a couple, but watching them confirmed the opposite. They’re more like sisters.

I hopped onto my bike, bracing each arm on the handles, and lowered my head between my arms. I let a deep breath out. She fucking caught me.

I can’t believe I let that happen.

Something about the way she moved, the soft patter of her steps against the cold floor, drew me in.

Her scent hit me first—black coffee and vanilla. It filled the air, wrapping around me, pulling me in. I knew I should have kept my distance, but my curiosity got the better of me.

Step by step, I inched closer, my senses overridden by the need to know more, to see more.

Suddenly , she moved, too quick for me to react. I froze, caught in the act, my heart pounding in my chest. Valeria’s eyes met mine, and I knew there was no escape, no plausible explanation for why I was there, lurking in the shadows.

She didn’t say a word, her mouth forming a perfect circle. Her cheeks were flushed when she looked up at me, our height difference obvious.

The tension was palpable, like a static charge in the air between us. It was as if our unspoken thoughts hung in the air around us, creating a moment neither of us knew how to break.

I snap back to reality. It was so sloppy of me to have followed Valeria down there, but I couldn’t help it. What was I thinking? This isn’t like me. I’m usually so meticulous, so cautious, but she clouded my judgment.

Before she’d ventured down into the basement, she looked like a lost deer, standing in the corner alone. I could feel the distress from across the room. It was palpable.

Lonely in a room full of people.

I couldn’t stop myself from trailing closely behind as she made her way down the stairs. I tried, but failed, to keep a safe distance behind her. I knew what she’d find down there.

I slipped out of the party but couldn’t leave until I caught one last glimpse of Valeria . I knew I should’ve left, but I was drawn to her.

I wanted her to see me, to feel my presence, to fear me.

I watched as she sensed me before she even fully saw me, her body tensing subtly, and I could picture the way her nipples hardened under my gaze, wishing I could be the goosebumps that erupted all over her skin.

The memory sends a rush through me.

I craved her fiercely. I imagined pulling her into the darkness of the woods, pinning her against a tree, claiming her lips with mine. Instead , I settled for something more subtle yet equally powerful: intimidation.

Her breathing was ragged, her chest rising and falling rapidly. I could sense the thrill in her, even though she looked scared.

Her frightened expression turned me the fuck on.

It wasn’t just the fear in her eyes that stirred me; it was the power I felt knowing I provoked such a reaction in her.

Her vulnerability fueled my desire, and I could feel my pulse quicken in response. It was as if she was at my mercy.

Now , as she emerges from the bathroom, I feel a primal need to assert myself, to dominate her in ways that go beyond the physical.

I want to press her further, to see how far I can push her.

As I watch Valeria , a thrill shoots through me.

I’m going to finally make my presence known.