About the Author
Debra creates pretend people in her head and paints them on the giant, beautiful canvas of your imagination. She has a Bachelor of Science degree in political science and writes new adult angst and romantic comedies. She lives in Maryland with her husband and two amazing children. She doesn't trust mannequins, but does trust bears.
DebraAnastasia.com for more information
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Copyright © 2021 Ilsa Madden-Mills
All rights reserved
Published by Ilsa Madden-Mills
Butterfly, Broken is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s twisted imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Author’s note
Dear readers, I’m so thrilled to be part of this anthology! Normally, I write angsty new adult sports romance and steamy contemporaries. When this short story opportunity came up, I jumped in and wanted to try something new. It’s sort of a mash-up of some of my favorite tropes. I hope you enjoy my experiment.
Thank you for reading!
Ilsa Madden-Mills
1
Rune
I’m standing on top of the world.
Ironic since I feel nothing.
I’ve watched this world change around me, slowly at first, then so fast I barely noticed. Wagons to cars, candles to electricity, huts to skyscrapers. Bah.
My eyes snag on the nighttime traffic below. One step off this ledge and my body would plummet thousands of feet, probably smashing right into that sleek, minuscule red Porsche.
Would it kill me if I didn’t use my wings? Oh, yes. Splat.
Do I care if I go splat? Up for debate.
My heart thuds in my chest as I inch forward.
Right here. Right now. Just open your arms and dive.
Forget about fulfilling a destiny.
Forget about my brothers in arms.
Forget about finding her.
That final thought digs its claws in deep, winding around my heart like a serpent.
I whip off my tuxedo bow and toss it over the ledge, watching it helicopter down. I rip my shirt off then toss it over the balcony of the penthouse as well. My pants, shoes and socks are next. Hope no one gets hit below by a size fifteen shoe. Balancing carefully, I throw my boxers next. I laugh as I take another swig from the whiskey in my hands. It’s my fourth bottle, and I’m wasted as fuck, which is hard for a creature like me.
I sweep my eyes over the skyscrapers of Manhattan, my gaze landing on a kissing couple in a high-rise. Their curtains are parted, and my eyes catch the goose bumps on the girl’s arms, the bead of sweat on his forehead.
I drink a toast to them. Bitterly. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
My brothers and I attended a party tonight, an event to meet prospective Omegas. We’ve been to many functions over the years: garden parties, luncheons, theaters, ballet performances, art shows, musical concerts.
The scent of the Omegas there? Sweet enough to make my dick hard as iron. Intoxicating, mind-blowing.
Just pick a pretty girl and settle, echoes my father’s voice in my head. Either you rule the world, or the world rules you.
I prowled every single inch of that ballroom, met the gaze of every female.
Hope had risen, small and fragile, the one thing I’d been holding on to. The king of his clan shall receive his one true mate. Those words are a legend, a promise from the three Fates, but my father never had a soul-bond with his mates, so why do I keep searching for mine?
She wasn’t there.
And I’d know.
Her perfumed scent is emblazoned in my brain: seawater and spruce, with a hint of pear.
A hundred years ago, I went home to Norway to attend my brother’s wedding—and found her. She was his bride, a blue-eyed, golden-haired beauty with a fierce spirit, and deeply in love with my brother.
Death took her fast. A warrior, she fought alongside me in battle and died in my arms with a spear in her heart. She was barely twenty and never knew she was meant to be mine.
I gaze up at the stars.
If the Fates will it, she should be reborn to find her king, dammit.
I’m only the heir, but I will be king!
“What the hell are you doing?” Bodhi says from behind me.
“Party’s over, huh?” I ask, dodging his question.
He groans. “Lady Winston corned me with not one, but four of her daughters. One is twelve years old! The gonads on these matrons to get their girls mated. Sheesh. So…why don’t you be a good boy and come off the ledge?” He makes his voice light, but I hear the worry. I hate that. I do. Listlessness hits me frequently, but I’ve been fine, really, just skating along year after year, but a deep discontent has taken me over, and something about tonight has crawled in my head and won’t let go.
“Always wondered how hard it is to be an acrobat.” I laugh darkly as I do a spin and face him. “Not that damn hard.”
His face flattens. “Rune. Get. Down.”
I walk to the right then stumble, weaving back and forth on the ledge, righting myself with my toes. “Whoa. That was close.” Facing the city, I put my hand over my heart and bellow, “‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot—’”
“Macbeth?” He pauses. “Wait a minute—Shakespeare owed me ten pounds over a game of cards. Wanker. Come on, hop down, now. You’re flashing all of Manhattan, and no one wants to see your dangly bits.”
“That is the whitest ass I’ve ever seen,” comes Evan’s gravelly voice as he joins Bodhi.
“Looks good, yeah?” I say, twisting my lips.
“Sure.” Evan pauses. “So, um, whatcha doing, Rune?”
“Quoting bloody fucking Shakespeare is what he’s doing,” Bodhi replies dryly. “And not well. Pretty sure he skipped a few lines.”