Bruised Hearts, Bound Souls
Chapter Two: Shame on a Stage
The next night, it happened.
His father had come home shouting. His mother had followed with a cracked bottle and even more cracked words.
“No more money? What the hell you doin’ all day? Useless, good-for-nothing little….”
“I’m trying! I work! I….”
“Then work somewhere better.”
“I’m seventeen…”
“You're pretty, ain’t you? They like ‘em pretty down at that queer strip joint on Franklin.”
Mickal froze. “No… No. I’m not doing that.”
But it didn’t matter.
The belt came off.
The bruises bloomed.
And his answer was ripped from him with every blow.
The club was called Black Velvet.
It smelled of sweat, smoke, and seduction. The neon sign blinked over the entrance, it looked dangerous.
The owner didn’t ask questions. Mickal was thin, pretty, desperate. That was all he needed to be.
He was handed clothes that weren’t clothes, fishnet, leather straps, tight shorts that felt more like humiliation than fabric. He changed in a bathroom stall, staring at himself in the mirror.
He looked like a puppet. Painted, dolled up, hollow-eyed.
The floor was loud, strobe lights slicing through bodies, music pounding like war drums.
Mickal walked out and was told, “Table five. VIP.”
And that’s where he was.
Deamon Cross.
The name echoed like thunder in the tech world, CEO of CrossTech Industries. A man who built empires from code and kept his humanity locked in vaults.
He wore a black tailored suit, crisp shirt unbuttoned just enough to show he didn’t care about the rules. A glass of scotch rested in his fingers. His dark hair was slicked back, his jaw sharp enough to cut through lies.
And he was watching Mickal.
Eyes like a hawk, Cold and Calculating.
Without a word, he shifted back and motioned to his lap, silent authority radiating from him.
Mickal obeyed.
He climbed into the man’s lap, trembling slightly. Deamon said nothing, just wrapped one arm around his waist and let the other cradle his glass.
“Name?” Deamon asked, finally.
“Mickal.”
Deamon’s hand slid down his thigh. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.”
He smirked. “That’s a shame. You look like a heartbreaker.”
Mickal said nothing.
He sat there, body stiff, mind blank, heart hammering.
Deamon noticed. His hand slowed. His gaze sharpened.
“You’re scared.”
Mickal shook his head.
“You’re a bad liar.”
And that’s when the mask cracked.
Because Mickal’s eyes were tired, hollow, broken and filled with tears.
He whispered, “I don’t want to be here. I don't want this.”
So he told him.
Not just some of it.
Everything.
The beatings. The hunger. The shame. The little sister who still believed life was good because he made sure she didn’t know otherwise.
Deamon didn’t move for a long time.
Then he leaned forward…
…and kissed Mickal.
Not with passion.
With possession.
With power.
With a promise.
“You belong to me now,” Deamon whispered. “I’ll take care of you.”
Mickal didn’t pull away.
Because no one had ever said those words to him before.
Next chapter soon.....🖤🖤🖤
