BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense

by Nelle L’Amour

  “Sofi, my dear. Look up at me.”

  Tearfully, I do as she asks.

  “He needs you. Please be there for him tonight.” She reaches inside her purse. “Here is the key to the door. You are the key to his heart.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Sofi

  He needs you. Please be there for him . . . you are the key to his heart.

  Madame DuBois’s haunting words whirl in my head like dancing skeletons as I stand outside the locked door of the nursery. Darkness engulfs me. Holding the antique barrel key in my shaky hand, I put my ear to the door. Silence. Then, on my next shuddering breath, I hear a muffled grunt and almost at once a sharp crack. My heart jumps and then I jolt at the next sound. A groan, deep, pained, and guttural.

  The pattern continues. A succession of grunts and cracks followed by a series of moans, groans, and hisses. Second thoughts besiege me. My stomach twists with apprehension. What right do I have to intrude on Roman’s private space? Maybe I won’t like what I see. Maybe I should just leave. The sound of my pounding heart is drowned out by the frightening sounds behind the locked door.

  Another sharp thwack, this time followed by a howl. Loud, anguished, and feral. Like the yowl of a wounded animal. Whatever apprehension I had evaporates; unmitigated concern overrides it. My fingers trembling, I jam the long, metal key into the keyhole, crank it, and as the door unlocks, another terrifying combination of sounds ices my veins. With renewed hesitation and a shiver, I push the door open and step inside, one baby step at a time. The sweet scent of gardenias immediately infiltrates my senses.

  Unlike this afternoon when the floral room was lit by sunshine, it’s now almost pitch black. The curtains are drawn, and only the flame of the fragrant candle that Madame DuBois left behind lights up the room. Even in the darkness, it’s not hard to spot him, his imposing shadow flickering on the back wall. He doesn’t see me. Kneeling on the shag rug, bare-chested, wearing only black silk pajama bottoms and holding a small dark object in his hand. I stand frozen at the doorway as he jerks it over a shoulder and thrusts it on his back. Whack! As it hits his skin with an ear-splitting crack, his head lolls back and he cries out in pain.

  “Oh my God, Roman! What are you doing?” Shockwaves streaking through me, I race to his side as he lashes his back again. Another wail. Louder. More pained.

  I fall to my knees beside him, now able to see that he’s clutching a flogger. Only knowing this from seeing a picture of one once, I try to hold his arm back before he strikes himself again. But he’s too strong. Too determined.

  Whack! The snap of leather against flesh crackles in the air. Squeezing his eyes, he winces.

  “Please, Roman!” I beg. “Please stop!” My voice is hoarse, raw with emotion.

  Desperately, with all my might, I try to wrench the whip away using two hands. I tug and I tug.

  “Go away!” Forcefully, he pushes me away with his free hand.

  The bicep of his powerful arm flexes as he whips himself again. Then, again and again. Groans spill from his gut, his face so tortured I could cry.

  “Please, Roman,” I plead again, my voice cracking with tears. “You’ve got to stop!” I can’t bear what he’s doing to himself, his self-inflicted pain becoming my pain. His torment, my torment. His soul, my soul. I can’t let him do this! I can’t! I can’t!

  “Go away!” he roars, but I refuse to give up. He lashes at himself yet again.

  A realization. Force isn’t going to work. With his formidable strength, I’ll never be able to get the flogger out of his hand. I need a different approach.

  One hand tenderly touches his shoulder, the heat of his skin scorching my fingers. With my other, I gently rub his wrist with my thumb just below the sacred gold bracelet Ava gave him. “Roman, I know what happened. Madame DuBois told me.” My voice is as soft as my touch.

  His body sags like a limp puppet. “I killed them!” he sobs out. “It’s all my fault!”

  “Roman, it was an accident. A terrible, freak accident. It wasn’t your fault.”

  To both my great surprise and relief, my words work like an elixir. He lets go of the flogger, and it falls to the rug, the frayed leather strands stained crimson with blood. Then, in slow motion, he prostrates himself, ironically in a child’s pose. For the first time, I see his back. The cords of his muscles. The damage. The gore. His loud, heaving sobs drown out my gasp. A patchwork of bloody welts mingles with a web of pink and white scars, creating an abstract canvas of torment and affliction. How many times has this poor man inflicted pain like this onto himself? Oh, the guilt and sorrow this man carries in his heart! The raw compassion I feel for him gouges a hole in mine. As his shoulders heave, his sobs relentless, tears of my own pour down my cheeks. I wipe them away before they land on his back and add salt to his open wounds.

  Another shadow casts itself on the wall. My gaze moves to the doorway. It’s Madame DuBois holding a tray. Tall and steadfast. Softly, in her sturdy rubber-soled shoes, she pads our way and sets the tray down beside me.

  Rising, her eyes stay locked with mine and I know she’s reading my mind. What should I do?

  “Stay with him. Take care of him. He needs you.”

  And with that she retreats, leaving me alone with Roman.

  His sobs softening, I soak the washcloth in the bowl of tepid water, and gently dab it on his fiery welts. He hisses and flinches, but soon submits to my touch. Several times I rinse the cloth to wash off the blood and when finally it looks like the bleeding has stopped, I apply the balm. Aloe vera.

  He lets out an aah. Half sigh. Half moan.

  The heat of his open wounds sears my fingertips. Even so marred, I can’t help but marvel at his broad sculpted back, the power it exudes. Somehow, his scars make him more spectacular. More godlike.

  “That feels good,” he murmurs under his breath. “You know you owed me a back rub.”

  For a second, I don’t know what he’s talking about, but then remember him saying that at the nail salon. I twitch the smallest of smiles.

  “Yeah.” This is just not the one I had in mind. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

  I manage to help him up. Only a few weeks ago, I was leaning on him. Now, this big, beautiful, complex man is leaning on me. His arm folded around my shoulders, I bear the weight of him as we stagger down the hallway to his bedroom. His heart heavy as if it’s laden with all the sins and sorrows of mankind.

  His bedroom is at the very end of the hallway. Though only twenty feet away, it feels like an eternity. Finally, we reach the door and I push it open. Dimly lit, the room is expansive, anchored by a massive four-poster bed. The walls are painted a charcoal black, and on the wall facing the bed, there’s another black-and-white portrait of Ava. Sitting on the floor in one of Roman’s exquisite gowns. Her legs seductively spread. A pose that should inject me with jealousy, but only makes my heart grow sadder.

  Letting go of me, Roman collapses onto the bed on his stomach, not getting under the black satin sheets.

  “Stay with me.” His voice is weary. More drained than pained.

  I do as I’m asked and tell him I’ll be here.

  “Butterfly . . . ” His voice is barely audible.

  “Yes . . . ”

  My heart pounds in my chest. A yearning pulses in my veins.

  “Thank you,” he whispers.

  For a moment I thought he was going to say something else, yet those two little words bring a silent flood of tears to my eyes.

  Breathing softly, he falls asleep quickly.

  Something has changed between us. He needed me tonight. I was there for him. He thanked me.

  Under Ava’s watchful eyes, I bend down and trail kisses down his spine, gently brushing my lips on his welts. Their swelling already down, they sing to me as though they’re asking me to take away all his pain and sorrow. So much of me wants to crawl into the bed. To soothe his wounds; soothe his soul. Relieve him of his other scars, the ones that aren’t visible to the naked eye
and have never healed. Be the balm for his brittle, broken heart.

  I resist. As I tiptoe out of the room, Ava smiles at me.

  CHAPTER 32

  Roman

  Today goes by as if yesterday never happened. Sofi makes no mention of last night’s episode nor do I. She spends her day in the atelier painting butterflies while I spend most of mine recovering in my study upstairs, keeping my distance from her. Only one other person has ever seen me flagellate. Madame DuBois. Even my shrink doesn’t know my deepest, darkest secret. What happened last night between Sofi and me was a game changer. She saw me at my lowest and she saved me. We now share an intimacy that is every bit as, if not more, powerful than the most intimate of sexual acts. An orgasm is fleeting. What Sofi did for me last night will stay with me forever. She knows who I am and has met the demon inside my soul. Any other woman in her right mind would have fled, but she stayed by my side. Did I thank her? I can’t remember. She’ll be here shortly with the coffee I asked her to buy. Maybe then I’ll tell her how much she meant to me. Then again, maybe I won’t. And just let things be.

  My back still raw, I’m dressed in my pajamas, the cool silk the only fabric my flesh will tolerate. Seated at my desk with Sofi’s Luna paperweight beside me, I should be focusing on my new collection, but instead I doodle in my sketchbook, unable to concentrate. I try to copy the moth and then I draw a lit candle. I stare at my creation. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that this phallic sketch is symbolic. A moth drawn by a candle in the darkness of the night . . . what would it be like to spread her wings and warm her until she was dripping with delight?

  I am lost in thought when I’m catapulted out of my erotic fantasy by the clickety-clack of high heels on the wood floor and a cloying floral scent that grows nauseating as it gets closer. Recognition is instant.

  “Roman, darling,” she drawls.

  I look up. It’s Kendra. Her voice is slurred, her pupils dilated, and she can’t walk in a straight line. Swaying on her feet, she makes it to my desk.

  “What do you want?” My words taste like acid on my tongue.

  “What you want,” she slurs back.

  With a smirk on her plumper than ever lips, she rounds my desk, and to my horror and disgust, plops down on my lap, straddling me with her long legs. The smell of alcohol is thick on her breath, making me feel more nauseated than I already am.

  “Kendra, you’re drunk!”

  She flings her arms around my shoulders and I wince as she cackles.

  “Oh, Roman, you’re so judgmental.”

  “Get the fuck off me!” I grind out.

  My words fall on deaf ears. Ignoring them, she rips open her cream silk blouse, popping all the pearl buttons, which ping one after another onto the floor, and undoes her front-hooking lace bra, freeing her breasts. Unlike Sofi’s which are small and supple, hers are monstrous and plastic. For sure implants. Plumping them up in her palms, she begins to squeeze and massage them.

  “Roman, darling, these can be yours. All yours. To nip. To coddle. To suck. To fuck.”

  Don’t. Fucking. Want. Them. Not now, not ever. This is not the first time she’s tried to seduce me while she’s inebriated. I’ve made it loud and clear to her that I want to keep our relationship strictly professional, but she has other ideas. And when she drinks too much, she loses all control. Becomes impulsive and repulsive.

  I breathe in and out of my nose, trying to stay calm as possible though rage is racing through me at supersonic speed. “Kendra, you should leave and we should forget this ever happened.”

  Her eyes blazing with drunken lust, she gives me a vapid stare. “Darling, nothing’s happened . . . yet.”

  What the hell is she talking about? On my next harsh breath, a soft whoosh sounds in my ears. I glance down. Kendra’s undone the drawstring of my pajama bottoms. Her right hand grips my dick that’s lying dormant beneath the fabric; she begins to rub it.

  “Come to mama.”

  My cock ain’t going or coming anywhere near her. She’s never taken things this far. “Get your goddamn hands off me, Kendra.”

  Instead, with her other hand, she shimmies her pencil skirt up to her hips and steeples her knees. Jesus. She’s not wearing panties. I glimpse her wet cunt and pull my gaze away as she says, her voice garbled, “Roman, I’ve always been the one for you. That shrew Ava was never good enough for you.”

  How dare she insult Ava? She’s never held a candle to her. With a sharp yank, I pull her hand away. She doesn’t react.

  “And probably the only thing that new little muse of yours knows how to do is suck her thumb. Such a child! Let me show you what a real woman can do.” Regripping the base of my cock, she lowers her head and wraps her mouth around the crown. And starts to suck it.

  That’s it. I’ve had it. The crazy bitch is sexually assaulting me! My mind races, contemplating my options. I want her off me in the worst possible way, but if I harm her in any way, she’ll manipulate who assaulted who. Who are they going to believe in this #MeToo world? Take a guess. The gorgeous whippet-thin woman with the D-cup breasts or her big, hulking partner with the ten-inch dick?

  Fuck it. I’ve got to take my chances. Plus, Sofi will be here any minute with my coffee. I can’t let my butterfly see me this way with Kendra. With one powerful thrust, I bounce her off my lap. With one powerful thump, she lands on her ass.

  “What the fuck, Roman?”

  I spring to my feet. “Get the fuck out of here, Kendra!” A beat. “Now!”

  Her disheveled hair dragging along the floor like a mop, she crawls to the doorway where she staggers to her feet and glares at me.

  Her mouth screws up into an angry sneer. “Don’t worry, Roman, what goes around comes around. You’ll pay for this.”

  With that she storms off and disappears.

  The next thing I hear is a scream.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sofi

  “Where’s Roman?” I ask Madame DuBois, who’s busy supervising her team. She looks tired and now I’m sorry I didn’t bring her and all the overworked Romanoffs coffees from the little café around the corner. The takeout line was insane. I could have fallen asleep waiting to order two lattes to go.

  A sewing needle in her hand, Roman’s beloved chief of staff looks up at me as I yawn. “My chérie, he’s still upstairs . . . in his study. It’s unlikely he’ll make an appearance today.” What happened last night has remained unspoken between us. But the bond it’s created is palpable. And unbreakable.

  I haven’t stopped thinking about last night. I hardly slept. Poor tortured Roman! He exposed a side of himself that few should ever see. Now, I have to face him again. Anxiety washes over me, wondering what to say to him. And wondering what he’ll say to me. He could have asked Madame DuBois or any of the Romanoffs to go out and get him coffee, but he specifically asked me. So maybe he wants to talk about it.

  Madame DuBois returns to stitching the antennae of a butterfly I painted using real gold thread as I head to the elevator, carrying the two large lattes in a cardboard tray. She calls out to me midway.

  “Sofi, dear, the elevator is not working. Someone is coming to service it tomorrow.”

  The old elevator has been on the brink since I started working for Roman. I’ll have to use the stairs. Thanking Madame DuBois for letting me know, I amble to the back of the studio.

  Balancing the tray of hot coffees with both hands given the spaz I am, I mount the steep steps, slowly and carefully, my eyes cast down so I don’t miss one. Halfway up, a sharp clickety-clack distracts me and I look up. Tearing down the stairs in her stilettos is Kendra, looking totally disheveled. Her glassy eyes flare with fury and her cheeks are blazing. What’s more, her blouse is totally undone as is her lace bra, exposing her melon-size breasts. My heart clenches in my chest. Did Roman have sex with her?

  For a brief second, her flaring eyes meet mine and fire me daggers. Without slowing down, she meets me.

  “You’re in my way, bitc
h!” she spits out as I stand frozen with shock. I don’t move. On my next blink, she slams into me, and the next thing I know, I’m tumbling down the stairs, one hard step after another. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! The tray goes flying and the cups spill open, the blistering hot liquid trailing me. Wordless groans escape my throat as I futilely try to break my fall. Cursing under her breath, Kendra skirts past me, the clickety-clack of her heels echoing in my ears as every fiber of my being cries out in pain. It feels like a bone-crushing eternity until I hit rock bottom, landing flat on my back and hard on my head. An agonized moan spills out of my mouth as stars dance behind the seams of my eyes. I want to get up and scream out for help, but my brain won’t communicate with my limbs or my larynx. It’s as if my head and my body have been trapped in a vise. The invigorating smell of the caffeine wafts up my nostrils, but even that doesn’t pull me out of my stupor.

  Dazed and disoriented, I hear Madame DuBois scream, “Mon Dieu!” On my next labored breath, she’s squatting next to me, holding my limp hand while rapid, heavy footsteps thud in my ears. Everything’s a blur.

  “Jesus!” It’s Roman, crouched down beside me. Panic fills his voice. “Sofi, it’s me! Can you hear me?”

  All I can do is let out another moan. This one so soft, so muted I can barely hear myself. My body, in contrast, roars with excruciating pain.

  “Madame DuBois, call 911!” Roman shouts. His stalwart chief of staff dashes off while Roman cradles my head and tenderly strokes my hair. “Sofi, stay with us. Look at me! Say something! Please!” The tone of his voice has gone from panicked to desperate. “Butterfly, please!”

  I try to say his name, but my mouth, like the rest of me, is paralyzed. I have a moment of inner panic thinking I may be paralyzed for life, that is, if I survive this fall, until a searing tear falls on my cheek, instilling me with feeling and hope.

  “Ro—” I manage, but his name dies on my lips. My eyelids close and the world goes black.