Page 11 of Against The Tide

“All you had to do was stay the fuck away from him,” he spits in my face while his hand winds in my hair and he drags me down to the stone floor.

His hand goes down to his belt, and my heart begins to hammer frantically. So hard that it physically hurts. Breath after desperate breath congeals in my lungs.

“Why is it so hard for you to listen. Just do as you’re told?” He lifts my chin with the tip of his shoe, examining the damage he caused, no doubt. “I swear to God, Avery, you’re a waste. You’re nothing but a spoilt daddy’s girl, and now he’s gone…”

I don’t let him finish, pushing away from him as fast as I can to crawl to the doorway. I almost make it. Almost. Only almost isn’t enough.

Grabbing me by my nape, he hauls me to my feet, spinning me to face him in such a way that I trip over his feet and face-plant into the breakfast bar. The sharp burst of pain from my cheek and the side of my head is a reminder of what’s already happened as blood runs down the back of my throat and pours from my nose as I turn to be greeted by Carl’s darkened features. His thin lips look sinister with his scowl, his skin ghostly.

“You honestly think Congressman Morgan cares? About you?” Taking a step back, he looks down on me. “You’re nothing, and now that Robert’s gone, you’re worthless.”

The space between us offers me an escape and a sliver of hopeful relief as I slip away from him.

“We’re not done!” He grabs me by the crook of my elbow. His grasp is lax enough that I manage to pull away.

“Yeah, we are.” Pushing through the pounding in my head, I head for the stairs.

I have to get me and Iris out of here. Away from him. Away from his mess. Each step turns my gut with how my head is still spinning. Now that the blood is crusting over my nose, it’s getting harder to breathe too.

“It’s always the same with you, Avery. Need, want, whine…whine…whine. You’re thirty years old, for God’s sake!”

“Actually, I’m thirty-one!” I blurt behind me. Carl wouldn’t know, though, because he’s missed my birthdays the last few years. He would’ve missed our daughter’s birthdays if I wasn’t the one organizing the cakes and buying the presents.

I’m halfway up the stairs when he catches me through a gap in the woodwork. My socked feet slip on the wooden steps, and I crash down. The entire right side of my body scrapes down the edge of the steps. The sound is louder than my garbled cry.

There’s no remorse at the sight of the damage he’s caused. Not a shudder or grimace as he stands over me, coming to crouch so that our faces are level with me hunched on the step, only indifference.

A tear burns through my resistance and skates down my pulsing cheek to his audible swallow. A sick, stupid part of me feels sorry for him.

His freckled hand cups my jaw, and he studies my face before he stands.

“You ever walk away from me again…ever…I’ll break your fucking legs.” His navy suit jacket strains over his thick arms with his hands braced on his hips. Carl is a striking man. Breathtaking with his rusty hair and porcelain skin. Amber eyes and sharp, high cheekbones. “You go near that prick again and I’ll kill you. And believe me, nobody, not a single fucking soul in this world, will give a shit if you’re gone.”

I almost believe him as he stands over me, watching as I breathe through the burning pain consuming every inch of me. He’s right—I’m on my own now. But I’d rather be on my own than with him.

“Mommy?” I look up to find Iris standing at the top of the stairs, staring with wide eyes between us, terrified.

“Go back to bed,” he barks at her coldly.

Her eyes focus on mine. I know they’re teary by the way her chin is quivering and she’s blinking.

“I’m thirsty, Mommy.”

My legs wobble when I stand, and it takes me far too long to right myself, because he’s standing right in front of me. Alcohol-sweetened breath coats my face as he tells me, “Put your daughter to bed. We need to go over the ground rules.”

Taking the momentary out he’s given me, I head upstairs one slow step at a time. Fully aware that our only escape is back there, I need to find another way of getting us out of here.

“Come on, baby,” I coo as steadily as I can, taking Iris’s hand and guiding her back to her room.

“I’m not thirsty,” she tells me when I walk her through her closet to her bathroom and start running the cold water to make her a glass.

Wiping her eyes, she hugs me tightly. It takes everything to hold in the pain that throbs up my side.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing. Mommy had an accident.”

“I don’t like it when Daddy’s angry,” she whispers when I take her back through the closet.