Chapter 5
My feet slap against the cool marble tile as I pace the penthouse, waiting for Atticus to arrive. The elevator door dings, sliding open to reveal Satan himself. I scour his face and hands for remnants of blood, knowing damn well he took care of Pierre before gracing me with his presence. I’ve lost count of the number of bodies he claims to have disposed of during his fits of anger or jealousy. Many years ago, I’d have claimed it was romantic knowing that I had a husband who has killed for me. Can’t say that I feel the same now, knowing just how depraved he can be.
With slow, measured steps, he approaches me wearing a Cheshire grin. His pupils are blown out into wide, pitch-black orbs. Dark strands of hair stick to his forehead, evidence of some sort of recent strenuous activity. His previously perfectly pressed suit is now visibly creased and wrinkled. Sweat, sex, and another vaguely familiar, sickly scent rolls off of him in waves. To say he looked possessed would be an understatement.
“Mon papillon, it’s time for you to take responsibility for your actions,” he sings tauntingly. His voice wraps around my neck, acting as the noose that will hang me without a second thought.
Choking on the breath caught in my throat, he removes his silver cufflinks with ease, seemingly unbothered by my reaction. His forearms strain against the sleeves of his black button-down, calling to me like a siren at sea. How is it possible to find a monster so damn appealing?
I place one foot in front of the other, faltering within a step of his polished, obsidian shoes as I fix myself to appear submissive and obedient.
Just like he taught me.
I hear it before I have a chance to see it coming. A sudden whoosh of air before the resounding crack of skin hitting skin. My head snaps to the side, sending my world toppling over. The stinging pain registers as it radiates pulsing heat from my ear to my cheek. A watery haze obstructs my view as I fight to hide how badly it hurts. Clenching my hands into fists, my nails bite crescents into my palms, distracting me from the pain in my face. The only act of defiance I can muster is to meet his sharp, hypnotizing eyes.
Lowering himself to squat in front of me, his eerily cool, calloused hand tenderly cups my face, stroking my injured cheek with his thumb; reminiscent of the day we got married. The contrast of his actions would be hilarious if the situation wasn’t so fucking terrifying. A familiar foreboding sense resurfaces, the one that has been screaming at me since the moment I signed my soul away.
“Your attempts at submission are as sweet as it was the day I welcomed you as my wife, Mae.” He whispers my name like a solemn prayer that causes my stomach to riot in confusion. I hate how convincing he sounds even after raising a hand to me.
“Go to hell, Atticus,” I hiss.
“Now, why would you go on to say such a hurtful thing like that, cher?” he mockingly pouts.
Jolting in surprise, I feel a burning pinch on my upper arm followed by a rush of waves throughout my muscles. Time seems to slow down as I watch Atticus pocket an orange-capped syringe.
Did this motherfucker just drug me?
“W-what di-d you do?” I slur, unable to voice my thoughts clearly.
“You didn’t think that little love tap was your punishment, did you?” he snickers.
“Lo-ve tap?”
My head sways as he abruptly pulls away. He stands back to his full height, brushing the invisible dirt away from his knees.
“Enjoy your nap while you can, wife. It’s time you learn what happens to disobedient creatures in my kingdom,” he warns.
Our sterile, white-marble flooring blurs around me as my body gives way to whatever the hell Atticus just plunged into my bloodstream. The last thing I hear before darkness claims me is Mrs. Fremont’s cries, begging for Danny.
Fuck.
Heavy, pounding thumps against my consciousness, alerting me that I’m free to wake from my nightmares.
Enjoyable nap, my ass.
Groaning loudly, I attempt to stretch my arms out only to be met with resistance. My arms feel heavier than usual and my mouth is unusually dry. Gathering what little strength I can find, my eyes crack open. Darkness with a hint of the club’s familiar third floor neon-blue low light greets me. Chills break out over my noticeably exposed skin as my head slowly clears.
As my eyes adjust, I can easily make out that the walls are filled to the brim with an assortment of BDSM tools. A large, silver kennel sits in a corner furthest from me next to a plastic lined sterile table. Frowning, I continue my perusal as the heavy pounding noise begins to clear, morphing into a familiar song by Au/Ra.
How fucking fitting.
Swallowing the bile in my throat, it clicks that I’m strung from a support beam as my toes are barely touching the ground. Black, silky ropes are wrapped tightly around my wrists, morphing into an intricate knot securing my forearms together.
As another song plays through the speakers, the sound of a door opening sends an icy chill down my spine. The stench of expensive cigars and spiced liquor assault my weakened stomach, causing a disgusting amount of saliva to pool under my tongue.
“It’s time I make good on my promises. Do you know where you are, cher?” Atticus sneers.
Closing my eyes as nausea threatens to take over, I breathe slowly in effort to control my panic. Licking my dry lips, I slowly open my eyes to stare my demon down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’m terrified.
“Yes,” I snap, letting my fear manifest into anger.
Trailing his hand tentatively over my exposed neck, as if he doesn’t want to break me, he releases an exasperated sigh. “I don’t understand why you push me like this, Mae.”
Spinning on his heel, he slowly walks towards the wall lined with impact tools. Minutes tick by as he studies every available option, easily ignoring my rapidly growing frustration. Sweat coats my skin causing a slight friction between me and the ropes.
“Maybe I enjoy the results of pushing you, husband,” I spit out. My voice carries a heat I refuse to acknowledge.
I’m one sick bitch, aren’t I?
“That was before you decided to share my pussy with someone. You wasted my cum on another man’s name. Now I’ll be taking his payment from you since he’s dead,” he chides, picking one of his favorite toys from the wall.
My muscles coil as I brace myself for immediate impact. His soul piercing gaze leers over his handiwork, inspecting the knots and bindings. Nodding his head sharply, I gather he’s satisfied with his findings since he does nothing to adjust me.
Quiet whistling brushes past my ears, ending with a loud crack against my flesh. A searing pain licks the back of my thighs within seconds. Tears well against my waterline as I bite down on my tongue, refusing to voice my discomfort on a single lash.
“You will give me payment, Mae. Over a decade together, I will know when you truly break,” he breathes.
He stands eerily still holding the single tail whip. He appears every bit like the fallen angel I’ve claimed him to be. His sleeves are rolled perfectly over his forearms, the contrast of color between his pale skin and the dark clothing has my vision swirling. Atticus Lennon will always be mesmerizing in the worst ways possible.
Raising his dominant arm, the whip whistles continuously. Each ends in a deafening crack more brutal than the last, breaking the skin on contact. Adrenaline mixes with my pain, ripping an embarrassing cry from my throat. My body burns uncomfortably as I shake against the bindings holding me captive.
Pausing before the next swing, his hand slips between my bound thighs. “Wet, as usual. It’s fascinating to see how conditioned you are for me,” he murmurs breathily.
Shame trickles through me, knowing that what my body is experiencing isn’t considered normal. I never questioned it, seeing as I’ve always had a high tolerance with Atticus. He introduced me to his lifestyle, teaching me everything that I know. I didn’t realize until it was too late that he was training me to be his submissive in every aspect of life.
He reaches for the anchor that holds my arms above my head. He swiftly releases the knot, leaving me no choice but to fall on my knees as my legs give out. As I move to bow my head in submission, his icy fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back up sharply.
Parting my mouth in surprise, he pulls a suspiciously familiar scrap of dark lace from his pocket as he shoves it in my mouth. The moment the fabric touches my tongue, I taste my own musky arousal.
“What happens next, mon papillon, will never leave this room. Not a single soul will confess what happens between us here. Nod yes if you understand,” he demands.
Nodding slowly, my hair tugs against his grip, ensuring several strands of hair are ripped from my scalp in the process. White dots spark behind my eyes as an echoing crack fills the room. My head bounces against the floor, disorienting my senses. A pulling sensation from the rope binding my wrists rouses me, my mind still too sluggish to keep track of what’s happening.
“That’s for your stunt at the club,“ his chest heaves, like his rage is trying to claw its way out from his body. Faster than I can blink, he yanks the rope forward, forcing my nose to connect with his swinging knee. I scream behind the makeshift gag, the crunch of my cartilage snapping rings in my ears while my nose pours rivulets of blood to the floor. I choke back a gag, praying that whatever contents threaten to evacuate my stomach stay where they are. He continues to rail his knee into my face, grunting himself from the pure exhaustion of his punishment.
“At-cs, o-op!” I beg, hoping he understands what I’m saying.
“Good girl, mon cher. You’re so close to breaking for me,” he growls.
Lifting my head, I watch his pupils dilate, He fixates on the blood that continues to trail down my lips. Tears stream involuntarily from my eyes as my heart stutters in my chest.
“Bow at my feet, Mae,” he demands.
Falling forward, my forehead reaches his shoes as he demanded, self-preservation sending me into auto-pilot. My lungs refuse to draw in a breath, afraid of the consequences that would undoubtedly happen if I inhaled the grotesque amount of blood stemming from my nostrils.
Humming his approval, he steps away slowly, returning towards the wall of erotic torture devices.
Despite the pain, there’s a wetness sticking to my inner thighs and a heat blooming low in my stomach. My body betrays me once again, begging for him to take the pain away.
This is insane, even for me. I don’t like this shit.
Something hard and cold to the touch caresses my back, tracing the remaining scars of my past. I start to thrash wildly against the floor. Using my tongue, I push the thong from my mouth sucking in a full, pain-filled, breath of air.
“Are you done beating your wife, Atticus?” I choke.
His movements halt suddenly, as if my ability to speak pulled him back to reality.
Pretty sure that’s not a good thing.
A heavy thwack slams into my back, forcing my bare stomach on the freezing tile floor. Goosebumps trail across my skin, raising each hair in waves.
“Do you want to know what I’ve chosen for this scene, little butterfly?” he asks.
I huff at his refusal to address my question.
Of course, he isn’t done.
He must take my silence as an answer when he continues his musings, “I know all about your little outings to that gym downtown. Ladrón’s, is it?”
He slides what I assume is a Kamagong stick across my ass, down to the junction between my thighs. I will my body to relax as he probes the stick against my folds, encouraging a sickening throb to pulse between them. I cry out a pathetic laugh mixed with a choking sob. My hips lift, seeking friction where my arousal grows. My body and brain wage a war against each other. To fight or obey. To turn my pain into pleasure.
Just as I’ve been taught.
Snarling at my pathetic attempts to hump the floor, Atticus hooks his foot under my legs and flips me on my back.
“Have I broken you so much that you’re enjoying this, mon papillon?” he coos, throwing the defensive weapon to the side.
Dropping to his knees, he straddles my legs while pulling a pistol out from the back of his pants.
“I wonder if you”ll like this more?” he muses.
His question leaves me speechless as my hands prickle numbly from the silky rope, now soaked in my blood and sweat.
Sliding his hands skillfully over the weapon, the echoes of clicking, popping, and releasing fills the room alongside my panicked breaths. A deafening crack fires above me, smoke trailing from my husband’s steady hand as a bullet lodges into the ceiling. “What the fuck are you doing, Atticus?” I ask as my heart stalls.
Shoving his knee between my thighs effectively spreading them open, I kick my legs in a pathetic attempt to hold him off. His face lights with a feral grin as a searing heat reaches my sex, breaching inside of me. Inhuman screams pierce the air while my body convulses against the wicked intrusion. It takes a moment for me to realize that the screams are coming from me.
“That’s it, petit papillon. Give to me what is owed. You can pretend to hate it all you want, but I can see your cream coating my gun,” he coaxes.
My screams fade into whimpering sobs at the reminder that my body is responding. That my body likes this.
“Should we up the stakes? If you don’t cum for me in two minutes, I’ll unload this clip inside of you,” he says. He drags the cooling pistol out, just to thrust it back in further.
Black spots dance behind my eyes, inviting me to give in to unconsciousness.
I don’t want to die.
Liam needs me.
Weakly, I roll my hips up, forcing my body to accept the gun to the trigger guard. The distinct sound of my arousal soaking the weapon has me clenching my core. Pain bleeds into pleasure as a shiver of desire flows through me. The pressure in the bundle of nerves between my folds builds with every plunge.
Groaning his appreciation, he fucks me with the gun the same way he’d use his cock. My climax peaks rapidly, spraying fluid over my inner thighs and the floor. I cry out in relief as my orgasm finally swallows my consciousness.