Hello again writers and readers alike. I call you friends. Thank you for joining me through this Soul Mate Publishing journey into the writing experience. I enjoy my visits with you and hope you receive some peek into the writer’s world through my posts.
We’ve discussed the flawed hero. Did I ever learn not to use such a hero again? I did. Flawed, but never damaged more than a little. If the reader hates him, he rarely recovers.
The heroine and the catalogue of requirements to reach that exalted rank were also discussed in former posts. Beauty, brains and the capabilities of Wonder Woman must be displayed so each of us can live through the written word, comfortable in our armchairs.
Now, we shall discuss the villain. He can be flawed. In fact, that attribute is almost required for believability. A little insane, bad to the bone, hardly an ounce of goodness in his entire being, but he always has his reasons for his actions. He can be smooth and charming on the outside, but insane. He can be scarred and wicked to the depth of his soul, given over to evil in all his ways, too. That’s okay with the readers. Readers want to hate the villain. Sympathy for the villain is not a good thing. Then the reader wants him to win and is disappointed when he or she receives their just deserts. The villain cannot get away scot-free. The reader doesn’t actually want such criminals roaming the earth with nothing to stop the wickedness.
I have a very evil, insane villain in A Lady’s Vanishing Choices. The scene is a little shocking so be prepared.
The Frenchman stared at his image in the cracked mirror and feathered his fingers through his dark, curly hair. His features remained expressionless, but he gazed deeply into his reflection, all the way to the depth of his soul and found chilled deadliness staring back at him. A wry grimace of amusement twisted one corner of his mouth upward while he inspected each feature.
He quite admired his hazel eyes ringed with thick, black lashes before allowing his gaze to drift down his naked body. Studying his athletic form from his face to his manhood, he threw his head back and preened.
After only a single look, these proper English ladies swoon with longing. He curled his lip in disdain. Not one distinguished member of the Ton bothered to search beneath the surface for the real man—a man strong enough to kill when the fierce, demanding urge overtook him. Fools, one and all.
Squaring his jaw, he tightened his lips. Mary Rose. A problem…she made a fatal mistake, always whining for fancy silk gowns and a larger place. He’d given her a fine ring and necklace, but, no, she couldn’t be content with that. Now the little bitch demanded more. Well—he’d give her more. More than she expects.
Picking up his swordstick, he strolled over to the bed where he bound his pretty to the posts. He’d already had her several different ways for her pleasure and his own. The expectant glint in her eyes brought a grim smile to his lips. Narrowing his lids, he sat on the side of the bed where she laid spread before him, helpless and submissive. He savored each time he tied her to the bed with his hunting markers and had his way with her. Enjoying every moment of her slave to his master, he stared into her china-blue eyes.
“You’ll love this, my sweet.” Drawing his sword out of the elaborate walking stick, he raked the sharp tip down the side of her breast, eliciting a thin trickle of blood.
She moaned softly and pleaded, “Please…”
Tipping his head to the side, he admonished in a tender voice, “Mary Rose, you have displeased me.” He traced her curves to her waist with his weapon. “I afforded time and effort to train you. Time I should have used to collect Wellington’s memorandum documenting his movements.”
The tip of the blade slightly punctured the skin of her belly. She screamed and he laughed as a small amount of blood welled to the surface.
“That’s it, my sweet. Give me a little more voice,” he coaxed. “It’s only a very small cut.”
“Loose me now,” she demanded in a quavering voice as the apprehension in her eyes gave way to fear.
Her expression delighted him and he chortled. “My pet, you love to play our games. You told me so over and over again. I know my usual custom is to cut you free, but I haven’t attained my full satisfaction yet.”
Smiling into her eyes, he lovingly stroked her blonde locks over her shoulders and whispered, “Mary Rose. Wellington’s plans are important.” He scraped his blade across one pale cheek and then the other with only raw skin to show for his teasing efforts.
“No more, please,” she pleaded again. “I don’t wanna play anymore.”
“But yes, my sweet. You enjoy anything that pleases me, and it pleases me to be distracted from my burning desire to eliminate the half English dogs who betray my beloved homeland. Sending information back to England from France is despicable. I’m proud to be a Bonapartist. I am a true patriot. Vive La France.”
She shook her head. Enjoying her frantic expression, he grinned. If she kept this up, he would need her again.
“You’ve ruined everything.” He kissed her trembling lips. “I had special plans for you.” Allowing his jaw to tighten, he whispered, “Stupid little English girl. A pity. You could have worked at the Foreign Office gathering information for me.” He continued to stare deep into her eyes. “Cleaning, or perhaps working on your back. Your true calling.” Laughing with a deep ring of pleasure, he mocked, “You could have joined me in my quest. But now…” He shrugged.
Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Forgive me. Let me help you now,” she begged.
“Too late.” He watched terror fill her eyes. “That’s right, my sweet. No one, especially a woman, a woman such as you, orders me to do anything. You thought because you pleased me in bed, you could issue demands?”
Trying to control his ragged breathing, he drew the sword-stick lightly over her bindings. A small rip sounded, but her bonds held. “A jest, my sweet. Raised your hopes, I dare say. You thought I had finished with you, didn’t you?” He could hardly contain his elation as he raised his sword only to plunge the blade into her breast over and over again, several satisfying times.
The excitement running through his veins increased while he watched her struggle to draw a breath. Finally, she laid completely still, her life drained away, and he gradually rose from the bed, his breathing heavy. Soon I will be able to rid myself of every encumbrance that plagues my life and be reunited with my precious Joliet.
Stepping into his clothes, he didn’t bother to wash the spattered blood from his body. He loved the power that swamped him after the necessary kill. She had asked for her own death, the little slut, making greedy demands.
He grimaced, wrapped the lifeless girl in a blanket, and quickly exited the back door of the pokey, rented cottage. Soon all shall be over, and I can shake the dust of this pretentious country from my feet and return to the civilized nation of my birth. Keep it together, mon ami. Tu devez.
This was not a rape scene, rather a game played by a manipulative, insane villain, evil to his core. He thought he was a hero.
Once again, thanks for taking time to read my post.
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