Page 5 of Your Daddy Does It Better
Bryce pushes a hand through his hair as he turns to me and leans against the wall. “How long has he been hitting you?”
“What?”
“I know he’s been hitting you. That fear in your eyes isn’t new to me. He hasn’t smacked you once. This has been going on for a while.”
I remain quiet, unsure of what to say.
“I’ve met a lot of men like Paul in my life. Piece of shit men who have a twisted notion that controlling and abusing women is helping them. They somehow delude themselves into thinking that being a man is equivalent to being a piece of shit. Man of the house, my rules, you do as I say or else.” He steps toward me, and I retreat a little. He’s massive. You wouldn’t know he was well into his forties. “I’m going to ask you again, Isla. How long has he been hitting you?”
I don’t know what to say. How do I confess the truth he seems to want but probably can’t handle? My mouth goes dry. I’m unsure how I utter the words that will make me sound more pathetic than I already feel. “It started after a month of dating.”
Bryce tilts his head and rubs his eyes. “He’s been treating you like trash for a year? An entire year of dealing with that abhorrent behavior?”
Shame covers me like ice in a blisteringly cold blizzard. “I’m pathetic.”
ChapterFour
BRYCE
Isla curls her slender arms around her waist. I watch in horror as my words cause her to physically shield herself. If I could drop-kick myself, I would because I’m a fucking asshole. I’ve shamed her, which is all Paul has ever done. People assume abusers only use violence on their victims, but it goes beyond that. Abusers break down every part of a person until there’s nothing left. It’s deconstruction. It doesn’t happen at once. It’s a slow, drawn-out campaign to strip all the layers until everything that makes them who they are is decimated.
I step toward her, and she shuffles back. She shakes, her bottom lip trembles, and a lonely tear glides down her face. She should lash out at me and run for the hills, but she stands there, vulnerable and exposed.
I’m at a loss about what to do. My piece of shit son has harmed her for the last year. Beyond all measures. She needs kindness, but I don’t understand what that word means to offer it to her. From a young age, I learned to be tough, aggressive, and even cruel to survive. Any gentleness was bred out of me a long time ago.
Isla is a rare being in a cruel world—a person who’s suffered but will continue to suffer for the comfort of another. It’s as if she can bear her bruises and abuse better than seeing another in pain. So she buries all the hurt and torment deep within herself to ease the sorrows of another.
What shocks me is that she’s doing it now. At this moment. For me. I don’t deserve her kindness when she should express every venomous thought about me.
I would have defended any woman in this situation. I’m a monster, but violence against a woman is a line I’ve crossed only once—with Julie, who was a child predator.
But when it comes to Isla, my instincts are far more nefarious. Honor and desire fuel me, and it frightens me to the core because, in all my forty-three years, I’ve never come across a woman as captivating as the one standing before me now. My eyes devour her, like simply looking at her can cure every disease ever inflicted upon me.
Isla's gaze is a punch to the solar plexus. A wounded animal pleading for mercy from someone who could break her in the blink of an eye. I understand that kind of hurt. It slithers into your veins and festers. A constant reminder of your insignificance. A glaring statement of how others can grind you into dust, physically, mentally, and spiritually.
But even with the scars Isla wears on her flesh and soul, she still has a mesmerizing quality, making me believe she’s a damn warrior beneath it all. I need to figure out what to do about the sorrow behind her eyes and how she fiercely hugs her body. I’m sure it’s my son’s doing. It doesn’t take much to capture and beat a beautiful bird until it forgets how to spread its wings.
Usually, I wouldn't care if someone self-deprecated. How others insult themselves has nothing to do with me. But when she called herself pathetic, I wanted to hunt Paul down and beat him until he never had the use of his hands again.
My hand shakes as it brushes her arm, causing her to wince as if I’ve hit her. I don’t like that she’s fearful of me, but I also can’t blame her. My son has been abusing her. She probably assumes the father will be no better than the son.
“I won’t hurt you, Isla. I’m not perfect, but I don’t deliberately hurt women.”
Isla raises her head, and her eyes find mine, blinking to combat the unshed tears. She straightens her shoulders, and I wait not so patiently for her to speak. The words that emerge from her mouth shock me yet put me at ease.
“Excuse me if I have a hard time believing you.” Her pretty eyes turn into slits, and her lips press into a straight line as the corners of my mouth turn up. “You think this is amusing?”
“You know you’re safe with me because I’m willing to bet you wouldn’t dare glare at my son this way or open your pretty little mouth to sass him.”
She shuffles back and folds into herself as I lead her further into the apartment. “Please. Don’t hurt me.”
Her plea is like a damn blunt knife scraping against my heart. Her soft voice reminds me of my mother’s as she begged for mercy.
Isla drops to the ground, tucking her body into a fetal position and covering her head as if expecting me to unleash my fists on her. I’m a dick. She doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall, and she’s only witnessed a fraction of the violence I’m accustomed to.
I crouch beside her and raise my hands slowly, palms facing out. “I’ll keep my hands to myself. But I’d appreciate it if you stayed for dinner and kept me company.”
“Paul won’t stand for this. He’s determined to get what he wants.” She takes a deep breath, tightening her arms around her waist. “One time, a guy looked at me at a restaurant, and he—” Her voice shakes, and her words are uttered in bursts as if she might hyperventilate before she finishes her sentence.
