Page 8 of Your Daddy Does It Better
I take two quick steps toward her, and she stumbles forward. Crimson slowly blends into the crushed crystal on the floor.
I lunge forward and grip her now bloody hand to examine the wound. A shard of glass is embedded in the middle of her palm, surrounded by other fragmented tiny cuts. “Jesus. I told you to leave it alone.”
Isla jerks her hand, but my grip is stronger. I hold it to me and slowly pick at the shards of glass in her flesh. She inhales sharply as I pull piece after piece from her soft skin.
“Don’t expect this to feel good,” I growl, irrationally irritated at her injury and hating myself for it.
“Sorry to be an inconvenience,” she mutters under her breath.
She winces as I wrap my hand around hers and glare at her. Her hands appear so fragile in mine. One forceful squeeze, and I could crush every bone. My fascination with her fragility is doused with ice water when I hear her whisper,
“Hit me. I’m sure all this is my fault somehow.”
My anger sparks at her comment, but I rein it in because the rage building inside me has nothing to do with her and everything to do with my damaged and dysfunctional genetics. My father would become irrationally angry and blame every little thing that happened on my mom or me. And sadly, Paul is a clone of my father.
“I’d rather slit my throat than put my hands on you in violence.”
The urge to kick Paul’s ass again is high on my priority list. Isla never stood a chance against him. She was his victim, and somehow, he made her believeshewas the aggressor. “What did my piece of shit son do to you?”
Isla’s eyes catch mine. Her lips part, then close abruptly as if she’s desperate to shield the ugliness of the truth. I understand the sadness in her eyes. It’s the same sadness my mother wore like a heavy cloak as she bore the horrors of living with my father.
“You don’t need to censor yourself around me.”
“He’s your son.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
I tug at the last piece of glass lodged in her hand. “Let’s get this washed up.”
We rise and head to the sink. She hisses as the cold water cascades onto her wounded hand.
I grab the soap. “This might hurt.”
She smiles hollowly. “Life hurts.”
Reluctantly, I abandon her hand and move to the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen to retrieve the first aid kid.
“That’s a heavy-duty kit,” Isla says, eyeing the large case.
“I’ve had heavy-duty wounds.”
“You’re fantastic at bandaging,” she murmurs a few minutes later.
I smile as I fasten the gauze. “It’s a skill I didn’t gain by the noblest pursuits.” I grip her good hand and tug. “Come on. It’s been a long day. Let’s get some sleep.”
I push open the French doors to the primary bedroom and gesture for her to enter.
She takes a hesitant step forward. I stare at her soft face, green eyes, and furrowed brow as she looks around. Her eyes wander to the black curtains, black satin sheets, and dark burgundy walls. “It’s not white.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Paul liked everything white.”
“Bloodstains are impossible to get out of anything white.”
Her eyes round, and her mouth forms a perfect O. She looks petrified at my words.
“Don’t worry. I’m not butchering people in here if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
Isla pulls her hand from mine and twines her fingers. A nervous gesture mixed, along with how she keeps biting her bottom lip. “I have nothing to sleep in.”
