Page 7 of Your Daddy Does It Better
I turn my head away, feeling the scrutiny of his gaze and the shame of my existence.Humiliation runs through me. My brain scrambles for a reason to run, and my heart shatters at the brutal reality of Bryce’s words.
“Don’t do that.”
His deep voice snaps me from my spiraling thoughts. I don’t move. I cast my eyes down, focusing on the food before me.
“Look at me, Isla.” His voice is laced with authority.
I jerk, but I don’t dare raise my gaze. I don’t want to look into his eyes because I’m scared of the truthsI might see in them.
“Damn it to hell, Isla. Look at me. I’m not going to fucking hurt you. I’m not a good man, never claimed to be, but I will never intentionally hurt you. You don’t need to behave like a scared animal constantly in fear that I’m going to demolish you. Now look the fuck up.”
My head snaps up out of sheer will and a spark of defiance. “Fuck you. I’m so sick and tired of people telling me what to do. How to act. What to say. How to dress. I’ve been your son’s puppet for too damn long, and I’m sure as hell not going to trade one prison for another.”
Bryce’s chair scrapes against the floor as he jumps from his seat. My plate and the ice in my glass rattle as he slams his hand on the mahogany table. “I’m not interested in being your warden, Isla. You can leave here anytime you want. But you can’t go back to Paul. I will not stand by while my piece of shit son abuses a woman.”
I tilt my head, taking in this giant of a man. Bryce may be Paul’s father, but he’s leaps and bounds beyond Paul when it comes to appearances. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more attractive man. He’s built like a beast and makes Jason Momoa look like an ant. “Why are Paul’s actions your fault? He’s a grown man.”
“Because he’s my son, and for the last year and a bit, he’s been harming you, and I didn’t know. I should've known.”
Shame. It’s the only emotion I can muster because as much as Bryce might want to take the blame for Paul, it was me who stayed. I’m unsure if I could resist Paul, not because I love him. I don’t know if loving someone who uses you as a punching bag is possible. “Paul’s twenty-seven years old. He’s an asshole and a control freak. There’s nothing you could have done. I should have left.”
Bryce pinches the bridge of his nose and lifts his face as if talking to an invisible deity. “Sometimes you want to believe the best in people so much that you sacrifice yourself, hoping that one day you’ll be able to fix them. That if you behave better, you’ll be able to stop them being so angry. Even if it’s just a little.”
“Are you describing yourself or me?”
He turns his eyes toward me, his lips curling up slightly. “Perhaps both.”
I long to ask him to explain how it all relates to him, but I have a feeling Bryce isn’t the type of man who volunteers information for free, and I have little more to give myself, let alone someone else. “I’m exhausted.”
He stalks toward me, and in three long strides, he’s by my side. He offers me his hand, and I can only stare at it. It’s riddled with bruises, cuts, and caked blood, a reminder of how he went after Paul. For me. “You want me to look at that? Some of those cuts are pretty bad.”
Bryce shrugs. “I’ve had worse.” He grips my wrist. “Since you aren’t interested in eating, maybe we should get you to bed.”
I don’t know why, but the wordbedon his lips has my stomach flipping. My mother told me from a young age that nothing in life is free. So it only makes sense that this man would want something. “Where am I sleeping?”
“In my bed, of course.”
ChapterSix
BRYCE
Isla jumps up. “Excuse me?” She’s visibly shaking as she braces her hands on her hips. “As I told you earlier, I’m not a prostitute.”
I can’t help the smirk that forms on my lips. I withdraw my hand and cross my arms over my chest. “Who said you were?”
“You. A moment ago. You said I was going to sleep in your bed.” She frowns as she wags her finger at me. She’s like a little lion cub trying to be brave.
“You are.”
Isla glares at me before pushing her chair back and stomping from the dining room. I follow her, watching as she huffs, grabs her black leather bag from the island, and stomps to the front door. She pauses, her gaze dropping to the shattered crystal vase from my altercation with Paul.
Her head lifts, and she sighs before bending to collect the fragmented pieces. I’m unsure why the image of her on her knees cleaning up after my son irks me, but it does. So much so that I want to lash out, but I know that would only spook her again.
It’s not easy for me to be gentle, but I have to try.For her sake.
“Get up, Isla.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. I’ve had enough of that from your son.”
