Wounded wing world intel.., p.1
Wounded Wing (World Intelligence Agency Book One), page 1
Wounded Wing
World Intelligence Agency Book One
H.B. Cliffy
Copyright ©️ by H.B. Cliffy
Wounded Wing 2024
Published by
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Dream Echo Designs
Editing by Hannah G. Scheffer-Wentz, English Proper Editing Services
Playlist
Here is a list of songs that H.B. listened to while writing Wounded Wing.
Your Love (Has Ruined My Life) – Holding Absence
Outside – breakk.away
Call Out My Name – Seraphim
Panic Room – Au/Ra
my strange addiction – Billie Eilish
Stockholm Syndrome – ARCANA
Black & Blue – Being As An Ocean
Bad Habits – Nerv
The Way That You Were – Sleep Token
In Love With a Liar – Green or Blue
Heavier – Rain City Drive
The Love You Want – Sleep Token
Peace of Mind – Villain of the Story
Every Time You Leave – I Prevail, Delaney Jane
Alive – Engrave
A Wasted Hymn-Acoustic – Architects
Bedroom Hymn – Too Close To Touch
11 Minutes – Picturesque
Sympathy – Too Close To Touch
What Are the Odds (Acoustic) – Silent Theory
Doomsday - Piano Reprise – Architects
Even God Has Hell (Acoustic) – Like Moths To Flames
Lady May – Tyler Childers
The Stages Of Grief – Awaken I Am
I Don't Belong Here – I Prevail
Full Circle – Movements
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4EO4zlWa2pf58dpAnx93fF?si=87a7d64040e04ed9
Contents
Foreword
Trigger Warnings
Dedication
Prologue
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Part Two
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Foreword
Hello, reader! Thank you for taking a chance on this book. I can’t express just how much it means to me. This book started as an idea that quite honestly, took to building its own life. It is DARK and it gets descriptive. Wounded Wing also ends on a CLIFFHANGER. If this is NOT for you, please do not continue forward.
For those of you who carry on, I’ll see you on the other side!
;)
This book is a complete work of fiction. I do not condone the actions of these characters. This book is written for those who are 18 years and older. On the next page, you can find the TW (trigger warnings) for Wounded Wing.
Trigger Warnings
Absent parenting
Abuse (physical, emotional, mental, sexual)
Asphyxiation
Assault
BDSM
Blood play
Bondage
Cheating
Coercion
Death unrelated to murder
Drugging
Dubious consent
Exhibitionism
Grief
Gun play
Impact play
Improper kink practices
Loss
Mafia related violence
Masochism
Mental conditioning
Mental illness
Mentions of cheating
Mentions of teen pregnancy
Murder
Non-consensual sexual acts
Organized crime
Poor mental health
PTSD
Rape
Sadism
Sex club
Sex-trafficking
Sexual assault with a weapon
Sexually explicit content
Somnophilia
Trauma
Vaginal injury
Violence
Voyeurism
Weapons
Dedication
To the writer wifeys who summoned Steven, the demon succubus that possessed me while writing whatever the fuck this is, y’all know what you’ve done.
No taksie-backsies!
Prologue
12 years ago
“I could give you anything you want…All you have to do is sign on the line and forget your past.” His siren-like voice sings a lullaby full of gentle and sweet words, convincing me that forgetting the past is a possibility. Demanding that I take this chance to be someone else…anyone else.
“Let me take care of you, my precious butterfly. There is so much for you to learn, to experience in this life,” he whispers tenderly, cradling my cheek in his palm.
I shy away from his touch, my eyes finding solace in a speck of glitter on the floor before the stinging pain behind them gives way to the tears I’ve been holding inside for months. I'm tired of being strong all the time, so goddamn tired of being haunted by the memories I’d rather leave unspoken.
He drops his hand to his side, jaw twitching in irritation. Clearly, he is upset with my unintentional snub toward his affections.
“Look at me,” he snaps, commanding my attention. “Would I ever hurt you? Lie to you?” He subtly quirks his brow as he waits expectantly for an answer. Something I have learned quickly about Atticus Lennon – he never asks rhetorical questions.
A flush spreads over my cheeks in embarrassment as guilt gnaws at me for not reciprocating his affection. It’s true, in the few months I’ve come to know him, Atticus has never once hurt or lied to me. Wanting to be the good girl he has been training me to be, I shake my newly shortened waves from side to side.
“I didn’t think so,” he confirms softly. “Once the ink dries on this paper and our skin, you will become Mrs. Lennon.”
My heart skips at the prospect of receiving a tattoo that commemorates this moment while nerves take flight in my stomach, leaving a buzzing feeling in their wake. Never in my 18 years did I think I would get a tattoo. Ma always said marking one’s skin was a sin.
“My name means something here in the city, you will mean something. Isn’t that what you promised him?” His hand brushes mine gently. “Don’t let him down now, not after everything you’ve done,” he murmurs quietly.
The stupid organ in my chest beats faster while my clammy hands shake against my will. Sweat dots along my hairline, dripping down the sides of my face. Frowning, a deep pit of grief threatens to swallow me whole once again at the mention of him. My eyes flutter as I fight against the flashes of my past that threaten to replace reality.
A young boy and girl, fireworks, pain, fire, and burning flesh.
“It’s time to pick yourself up from the rubble and make good on your promises,” he orders firmly, jolting me back to the dark-themed office we have been standing in for the last thirty minutes.
My tongue darts out, licking at my freshly glossed lips as the question churns in my mind. Anxiety ricochets in my chest, dropping low to my stomach only to come back up to poke at my heart. The answer could either break me further or give me hope, something I have feared I’d never feel again.
“W-will we ever be in love, Atticus?” I murmur.
His gorgeous face breaks out into a disarmingly bright smile, one that gives me butterflies in all the right places. By beauty standards, Atticus Lennon is the kind of handsome someone like me would only get to read about. He’s tall and lean with chiseled cheekbones that make him appear more statuesque than man. He is always wearing black-on-black suits, never entertaining the color white. His eyes, a rare stormy gray leeched of nearly all color, but in the right light, I swear they could turn someone to stone.
“Will we be in love? Oh, mon papillon, I am already in love. It’s okay if you’re not ready, I’m ready enough for both of us,” he confesses.
His words drip with a confidence I wish I held. That enough has my hand grasping the single, dark ink pen laying on his desk like a lifeline. I manage to scratch a sloppy signature across the bottom of the white certificate, signing my name away without a second thought.
Goodbye, Mae Broussard.
Hello, Mae Lennon.
“That’s a good girl,” he whispers. His soft praises ease the ache in my heart, acting as a balm against the scars woven deep in my soul.
“To belong to me means to belong to Le Papillon. You will bleed for me and for the club, and in turn, we will bleed for you.”
The desire to belong thrums through my veins. I want a place to call home now, more than ever. Even if that meant I had to bleed myself dry.
I owe the universe that much, anyway.
His cool fingers wrap delicately around my wrist, sending goosebumps dancing across my flesh. The sudden chill freezes e very cell in my body, burning my skin from the inside out.
“A true family, just like you’ve wished for. No one here will abandon you, not as long as you bear my brand,” he states, devoid of all previous emotion. His eyes cloud with an eerie darkness I’ve yet to see from him and pray I never see again.
A knot twists wickedly in my stomach. Somewhere scratching beneath the surface, there’s a sickening sense unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Anxiety blooms in its place, screaming at me to run and never look back.
Belonging to Atticus Lennon would be the death of me.
Chapter one
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 the third floor,” 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.
Clearly it hasn’t helped.
Having heard enough, my hand snaps out faster than she can blink, grasping her neck in a possessive hold. It’s clear to me that she needs a reminder of who the hell I am and where her fucking place is.
