Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

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.