Page 5 of Where Broken Wings Fly

Unable to escape, I shut down instead. The tiny voice in my head is begging for relief, but no one comes to stop his assault. The door remains locked as Mr Sanchez breaks me.

That night was the beginning of the end. I didn’t know it at the time, but my life would never be the same. I thought I knew suffering, but the lessons were only just beginning.

Sometimes, existing in empty spaces can be fatal. But sometimes… it’s the only way to survive.

CHAPTER 1

WILLOW

MARS - YUNGBLUD

Ten Years Later

Staring into the woman’s empty eyes, I feel absolutely nothing. Not even a scrap of sadness for her death in all its brutal cruelty as blood gushes from between her thighs.

I should be screaming.

I should be running.

I’ve learned that neither works.

My husband, the notorious Mr Sanchez, thrives on two things—fear and control. He demands compliance in all aspects of his life, from his successful real estate business to his disgusting depravity in the bedroom.

Laying here, immobile and utterly silent, is the only power I have left in this world. Depriving him of my terror starves the beast. He loves the nights I sob and beg him.

I’m not always the one getting hurt. Like tonight, he sometimes enjoys an audience and brings a plaything along to bear witness to his sick desires. We suffer together.

“Stupid whore. I thought you’d last longer,” Mr Sanchez sneers, wiping blood on a handkerchief. “Must be a new record. What do you think, Willow?”

Fighting the urge to flinch, I stare up at the panelled ceiling, lit by a black chandelier that casts an oppressive light into his playroom. He keeps it dark in here, full of shadows and curling cigar smoke.

“I can’t hear you!” he shouts viciously.

“Yes, Mr Sanchez.”

“Don’t disobey me, wife. You know what happened last time.”

I battle the urge to throw up. My body is still healing from the last time I defied him and was beaten within an inch of my life. That’s why silence is safer.

“I have a new whip. Perhaps we can play with it later.”

Casting a final disgusted look at the woman’s still-warm corpse lying broken at his feet, Mr Sanchez tosses his bloodstained handkerchief aside. She’s just one in a long line of faceless sacks of flesh to him.

I’m handcuffed in my usual position on the bed, restrained and deliberately placed to have the perfect view of the room. He likes me to watch as he abuses these women to teach me a lesson when the beatings fail to inspire my obedience.

This wing of his vast mansion is my least favourite. Through endless, echoing halls pathed in polished marble, velvet and gold, my husband’s playroom awaits in the quietest corner.

None of his staff come into the playroom—only Pedro, one of Mr Sanchez’s personal bodyguards. He is actually a good man, trapped in the devil’s lair.

Pedro hates seeing me like this and tries to avoid entering this room now. He usually unlocks the door for the cleaner and keeps his eyes averted to ignore the blood stains.

“She was weak, breakable. Unlike you, chica.”

Mr Sanchez saunters over to the bed, trailing a finger along the silky sheets to reach my restrained legs. His nails bite deeply into my skin, leaving bloodied welts.

“You’ll have to finish off what she started, won’t you?”

“N-No, please. I’m still r-recovering—”

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