Page 5 of Wicked Dove (Institute Thirteen #1)

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.”

Another eye roll, and she tucks the device away. “I was scanning your neck.”

My glare deepens as I fold my arms over my chest. “What for?”

“For your magical mark.” She says it like it’s obvious.

It’s not obvious.

“That’s just my tattoo,” I insist, still covering the spot as her eyebrows raise.

“Sure.” She turns away from me as I frown, confused.

“What does that mean?”

Before she can even consider answering, which I’m sure she wasn’t, her watch beeps.

“Come,” she commands, heading for the door without waiting for me to follow.

“Where do you expect me to go when I can’t fly?” My chest tightens with anticipation and she glances over her shoulder at me.

“Who said anything about flying?” she asks, opening the door wider to reveal…

“What the hell?” I blurt, disbelief carrying me toward the door.

It’s not blue skies and clouds that greet me, not even dark skies and glittering stars, but what I can only describe as a science lab.

Gulping, I watch as she saunters from the room, weaving between the rows of worktops and past the shelves lined with vials, each filled with an array of colors.

Uncertainty wars inside of me.

I can either hide away in here, going nowhere, or I can follow her into the unknown.

Dammit.

I’m sure waiting here won’t get me home, and while I can’t promise that out there will be better, I have to hope it is. Reluctantly, I rush after her, my socks slipping on the hardwood floor.

We don’t see a single person as she heads down the hallway, aware I’m right behind her.

“What is this place?” I ask, nerves rising inside of me.

“The Sanctum,” she offers, and I heave a sigh of frustration.

“The asshole told me that. But what does that mean?” I push, and she shrugs, not bothering to look back at me.

“This is the testing area,” she explains, tapping away on a device on the wall to our left.

“The what?” I repeat, and she shakes her head.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Because I don’t know what’s going on,” I retort defensively.

“If you shut up and paid attention, then you would,” she snaps back, finally tilting her gaze in my direction, only to glare.

Huffing, I fold my arms over my chest. “Where is Walker?”

“Who?” Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, making it abundantly clear she has no idea who I’m talking about.

I want to scream. I wish the world would stop and set itself right. I don’t want any of this. As for Walker, I have to keep reminding myself that he’s okay. He has to be. He’s going to worry about where I am. I’ll fight my way out of here knowing he’s searching. That’s what I have to trust.

The device on the wall chimes, cutting through my thoughts as the door opens nearby. The woman steps inside, and as foolish as ever, I follow her. I step inside, only for the door to slam shut behind me, making me startle.

Gulping, I turn my attention to the room, noting a bed in the center with a bunch of machines surrounding it. I don’t like this. I don’t even know what this is, but it’s a no for me.

“I’d like to check out, please.”

Ignoring me, the woman sighs. “Get comfortable on the bed, Miss Blackwood.”

I snicker, waiting for the joke, but when she gives me a pointed look instead, I know there’s no humor here.

“Seriously, let me out,” I insist, the urgency clear in my voice as her lips twist with distaste.

“Are you going to make this harder than necessary?”

“That depends on what your intentions are,” I answer swiftly, watching as she rolls her shoulders back.

“Last time. On the bed,” she orders, making my chest tighten as my hands ball into fists at my sides.

“Listen here, lady, I—” My words transform into a screechy yelp as I’m lifted off the floor. The next cry for help is lodged in my throat as I whip through the air, slamming against the thin mattress a second later.

Staring in horror, I splutter, pressing my palms into the sheets as I try to shuffle back off the bed.

“What the hell? I don’t consent to this!

” I yell, but before I can even swing my legs over the side, cuffs snap open at the foot of the bed, locking my ankles into place, then at my sides, restraining my wrists.

Fear prickles down my spine as I stutter over my words. “L-let me o-out.”

“It won’t hurt, Miss Blackwood. I’m simply testing your magic,” she states, still ignoring my actual presence as I scramble to save myself.

“I don’t have any magic. Please,” I beg, trying to sit up, when I catch another glimpse of brown leather out of the corner of my eye wrapping around my throat, rendering me completely helpless.

“Your marking says otherwise,” she states, making me frown.

“It’s a tattoo,” I insist, assuming she’s referring to where she touched my neck. Instead of answering me, she turns the screen around in front of her. I don’t really understand what it’s showing; all I can see is the fact that there’s bright green writing flashing across.

Magic confirmed.

“You’re mistaken. Just let me go,” I beg, fighting against the restraints, but she continues to ignore me. The sound of one of her machines whirls into action, leaving me lightheaded as a bright light focuses on me. “Please,” I repeat, desperately, as something clamps down on my head.

I scream in anticipation, the sound waning when nothing happens, but the moment it mellows, pain consumes me from head to toe. My scream turns into a roar, rippling through every inch of me. When the excruciating pain subsides, I glare at her.

“You said it wouldn’t hurt,” I cry, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes.

She smirks at me, the hint of malicious intent nothing but a whisper in the curl of her lips. “Huh, I must have got it wrong.”

Before I can protest, I’m consumed with torture once more, only this time, I don’t hear my screams as the familiar tendrils of darkness claim me.

My breath catches in my throat as I wake up, startled and panicked, but I stay perfectly still while I assess myself from head to toe. My mind is sharp and alert, fueled by fear and panic as I realize I’m no longer strapped to a bed against my will. Instead, I’m curled up in the fetal position.

The sheets beneath me don’t feel any different, but when I squint, the surroundings that greet me have changed.

Without thinking, I spring to my feet, stumbling over my jelly-like limbs, but I barely take five steps before I am stopped by a pane of glass that runs from the ceiling to the floor, trapping me.

Again.

My chest rattles with each breath, fear ready to take over. Determined not to let them control me again, I punch the glass.

Once. Twice. Three times.

“Let me out!” I scream, my heart pounding wildly in my chest as I continue to slam my fist into the glass.

No response comes, nothing at all.

I try to calm my breathing, but it’s futile. I can’t handle being caged like an animal any longer. Lifting my fist to slam the glass again, I’m met with resistance as fingers curl around my wrist, halting me.

In slow motion, I turn to find a brooding man a step beside me. Blond hair sweeps back off his face, revealing his deep, green eyes and chiseled jaw as he glares at me. I’m not short at five-foot-nine, but he’s enormous, making me crane my neck as my pulse quickens at his sudden proximity.

Before I can collect myself, he snarls, disdain pouring from every breath.

“Punch the glass one more time and I’ll break your fucking fingers.”