Page 2 of Wounded Wing

Present day

Colorful eyes meet mine from across the floor. Unique bursts of blue, gold, and green with the smallest hints of light brown hidden threaten to hypnotize me. In all of my 37 years, I’ve never seen anything quite like them. Tilting my head to the side, I study them keenly, observing that her neon purple eyeshadow and smoky, dark liner make them pop to a shade above teal.

Fascinating.

Blinding blue and purple stage lights move in sync with the music, highlighting darkened bruises and every silvery, white burn scar scattered over her fair skin. The contrast of her soft brunette waves and midnight lace lingerie makes my mouth water with anticipation. She looks like heaven and sin wrapped into one perfect, little package. I want to mark her skin all over again.

God, I’m a lucky bastard.

I scan the crowd, noting that everyone’s eyes are glued to her petite hands as they slowly fist around the silver, spinning pole at the center of the stage. I can’t help but watch as she sways her curvy hips seductively to the beat before suddenly dropping her luscious cheeks to her heels. Her hands slide down the rod suggestively, turning the action into an erotic demonstration. I wouldn’t be surprised if every man lounging by her stage had an aching cock as they tossed their money in her direction.

Mon papillon.

I have been addicted to her since she stormed into my club begging for a job nearly twelve years ago. Her actions were admirable, though no less stupid. It’s no secret that Le Papillon is an unsavory establishment despite its outward appearance. She was young, a new mother, and more mentally devastated than most who willingly walk through my doors seeking employment.

I worked her over for six long months, carefully breaking her down, making it impossible for her to do anything without me. She was incredibly receptive of my conditioning, which prompted my decision to keep her. The day I made her my bride, I branded her as one of my butterflies.

Her ignorance made her willing to please. Guilt made her easy to manipulate. Devotion ensured that no price was too high to pay. Mae Broussard became a perfect trophy wife to the outside world, but inside of my gilded cage, she would stay nursing her permanently damaged wings, no matter how badly she wanted to fly away.

She steps gracefully off the stage, swaying her full hips making the glitter stuck to her well-displayed, sweat-licked skin sparkle. My cock twitches against the zipper of my dark slacks as I witness her in her element. What can I say? I have an affinity for sparkly, delicate creatures.

“Mon cher, you could entice a nun on that stage,” I drawl, my Southern charm in full effect. Here on the floor, I showcase my kind hearted, appealing nature. Encouraging the self-proclaimed royalty of New Orleans to feast their eyes on my most prized possessions. It’s a rush knowing they want what they can’t have, yet they still pay to get as close as possible.

Her lips turn upward, offering me a saccharine grin that complements her sultry stage persona. Years of training to perfect her mask has truly paid off. It’s difficult to believe the woman standing before me once cowered on this very floor, terrified that someone would dare touch what belonged to me.

“Atticus, what brings you to my floor tonight?” she purrs.

The muscles in my face pull into what I’d assume people perceive as a smile. I’ve worn this mask too long to remember what a genuine smile feels like. “I heard some chatter and wanted to see who the fuss was about,cher.” My shoulders lift in a casual shrug.

I can’t help but feel impressed at how well she is playing her role around me. If last night was anything to go by, I know she’s still ill as a hornet. Though, I can’t say I fault her. There’s little in this life that is more demeaning than catching your husband balls-deep inside someone else a time or two. I imagine that is bound to sting. Regrettably, her downfall is to get mad and worse, to get even.

She found out just how far my limits had been pushed last night when she ultimately paid the price with my ropes and blackened bruises on her plump skin. Her mixture of tears and arousal was more than enough reason for me to let my darker demons come out to play. The marks I left behind are a delicious display of art tonight. I’d even say it was my best work on her to date, though they were intended for my eyes only.

Offering a full-toothed smile, I pull my butterfly against my chest, knowing just how much it makes her skin crawl when people witness my displays of affection toward her. I brush my lips against her ear growling, “Getting on that stage tonight was a risky move, Mae.”

Her body tremors in anticipation. “Everyone can see my marks on your supple skin. Those were for my eyes only,” I sneer, squeezing her soft arms. “Play your part well tonight,petit papillon, or I’ll be forced to make good on my promise of taking you to the third floor.”

The sound of her breath quickening spurs the demon in me. Causing Mae pain has never been as appealing as it is now. Maybe I’ve grown more depraved over the years. Or maybe, I enjoy the challenges my butterfly gives me and the twisted games we play.

I never planned to take over a sector of the sex-trade business, though I can’t say that I’m disappointed by it. I’m a king amongst these peasants who beg for my scraps. Young women and men are sent to me from various locations. I sort the masses after choosing the best selections to collect. Those who do well in their training with me are branded with a bright, blue and black ink butterfly on their breast.

Mae discovered my operation five years ago after a minor incident. As small as it was, I still dream of the girl with long dark hair and haunting gray eyes that rivaled my own…

The one who flew away.

It was right about then that she decided to start pushing back. I hate how her morality has remained hanging by a thread after I sank my teeth into her. I became the enemy in her heart and mind, but her body, well, that part of her is mine to control.

I step away slowly, granting her a moment to fix her face. Her previously widened eyes narrow sharply, as if she could slit my throat with little effort. Her moments of defiance have been occurring frequently these days.

A tinkling giggle escapes her perfectly glossed lips as she drags her hand down the valley of her breasts. The dark sheer lace of her bra leaves nothing to one’s imagination, a distracting sight, even for myself.

“Atticus, do you really think I’d allow that?” she questions.

My ears buzz with a static white noise. The woman speaking to me may look like my wife, but her attitude is certainly not. Perhaps I truly have given her too much leniency lately.

“I will blow this pretty little Hell house to the sky and dance on the ashes before I willingly enter thethirdfloor,” she spits furiously.

My head bobbing, I know her proclamation is every bit true. My dearly beloved has developed quite an obsession. Maybe even further than obsession; a compulsion. She can’t resist causing destruction one way or another. My success has permitted her to buy anything her little heart could desire. I thought my money would pacify her into obedience, yet another reminder that she is nothing without me. I ignorantly assumed she would buy herself designer clothing, jewelry, or even a luxury car. Instead, she begrudgingly accepted my less than legal ties, setting herself up a dingy warehouse with enough ammunition to take out a small army. I authorized minor demolitions across the state with her outlandish projects in hopes it would quell her need to be destructive.

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