White Wings of Desire (Set of White Wings, #1)
Prologue
If only he knew what was waiting for him, a death so sweet and yet so poisonous.
Seducing my target had been easy; the guy was desperate for some action, as if he didn’t rape a poor girl just last night.
Now, in his hotel room, he has me pinned to the sofa, his lips pressed to my neck, his tongue lapping at my skin, trying to make me feel good. But to be honest, his actions remind me of a dog hungrily licking peanut butter from a toy, trying to get every last bit from the hard-to-reach corners. Fortunately, with his technique, I”m confident he won”t leave any hickeys, no matter how hard he tries. And boy, does he try.
I force a moan, pretending to be turned on by his attempts, when, in fact, it”s the furthest from pleasurable and nausea crawls up my throat. Who on earth gave him the idea that this feels good?
He slides his hand up my thigh, pushing my dress up higher. I reluctantly spread my legs and his hand dips between them. I pray for the effects of the poison to kick in fast. The mere thought of his filthy fingers touching my cunt makes my stomach twist in disgust; I may need a bleach bath after this to feel clean again.
To my relief, it seems my prayers have been answered. Just as his fingers brush beneath my thong, touching the smooth skin of my outer lips, his breathing falters, and he begins to choke. He pulls away from me, falls off the sofa, and kneels beside me, clutching his throat as he fights for air. His eyes are blown wide with fear and confusion, and his face is pale as he spirals into a state of panic.
With my newfound freedom, I straighten up, smoothing out the soft fabric of my dress. I grab a tissue from a nearby table and gently dab it against my neck, wiping away the excess saliva left on my throat. While the nausea fades, the sensation of his saliva is enough to make my skin crawl. I rise to my feet, my heels clicking sharply on the polished wooden floor, echoing the sound through the hotel room. When he tries to reach for me, I use all my strength to shove him out of my way, putting more distance between us.
”You... bitch,” he finds the strength to say between gasps; the veins in his temples throb, and his nostrils flare as his face turns a shade of deep crimson, a reflection of his rage. He finally seems to understand the gravity of the situation. I watch him reach for his phone, probably to call for help, but I step on his hand, my heel piercing through his skin.
”No one”s coming to save you,” I say with a smile, pushing my dress up just enough to tease him with the sight of my thong covering me as I draw my pistol from the lacy holster that wraps tightly around my thigh. With my heart pounding in anticipation, I check the magazine, making sure each bullet is in its proper place. Glancing at the man in front of me, I see the fear in his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, I”m filled with a twisted sense of satisfaction. Up until a few minutes ago, he had no idea who he was dealing with, but now he”s fully aware of the danger he”s in. I reach for my purse and pull out the silencer. With a skilled flick of my wrist, I screw it onto the pistol, making sure it’s securely locked onto the barrel.
A sudden tug on my dress gets my attention, and as I look down, I see that the disgusting piece of shit has crawled over to me and is clawing at the fabric of my dress.
”You can”t kill me.” His voice is weak, and he tries to reach for my pistol with what little strength he has left. Rolling my eyes at his pathetic plea, I push him away, grabbing him by the jaw and forcing his gaze to meet mine.
”Honey, you”re already dead,” I say with a chilling calmness, making sure my words get through to him. Forcing him down, I step on him, pressing the tip of my heel into his chest, drawing a painful groan from him. ”You will never hurt another woman again.” And I pull the trigger. A single shot pierces his skull and ends his miserable existence. Blood splatters all over my dress, leaving behind unwanted stains, and his body goes limp; his hectic movements die down, leaving the room in an eerie silence. ”I just bought that,” I mutter to myself and purse my lips in a pout at the sight of my now dirty dress.
Thankfully, it”s red, so the blood won”t be too obvious on my way back home. I head for the bathroom, and while rinsing out most of the stains on my dress, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror; my face is covered with blood as well.
I sigh. Feeling exhausted and drained, I raise my hand to my face, drawing a line of crimson red across my cheek. There”s a weight in my chest as if a block of cement has been tied to my heart and is dragging it down. I am sick of this life, of the constant violence. ”I’m done,” I say to myself in a quiet voice. I”ve made up my mind. It”s time to move on. I want to be free; I want to reclaim my life and find a way to be someone else, someone better, someone that others can be proud of. It won”t be easy to leave, and I know the consequences of my past won’t simply disappear. But I want to build a future that”s worth living.