Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
“I’m not a little boy, Isla. I’ve had my fill of manipulative women. You’re going to be a good girl, or I’ll be forced to treat you like a bad one.”
Isla sneers right before she slaps me across the face.
Chapter Seven
ISLA
My gaze moves from his face to my hand, shaking in the aftermath of my action. I’m shocked by what I’ve done and fear the repercussions.
I collapse onto the floor and shield my head, desperate to protect myself. The first blow will hurt the most. After a few hits, my body will go numb. My eyes slide shut, and I pray to whatever merciful deity that may be listening to make my suffering quick.
Fear strangles me. A putrid emotion that turns into something vile and burns within my veins. I want to be strong to stand up against the shadow falling over me, but the sharp terror is crippling. I’m frozen, incapable of anything other than covering myself and waiting for the blows.
“What are you doing?” A deep growl.
“Please.” The only word I can squeeze past my tight throat. I’m too scared to say more in case it escalates his anger and risks further harm. Memories of brutal hands punching, hitting, and humiliating me violate my mind. I float out of my conscious mind, disassociating from reality.
He grips my arms. “Get up, Isla.”
I follow his command, not daring to defy him for fear of what it may lead to.
“Look at me.”
I raise my eyes to his, shocked to see no anger or desire for vengeance. Behind his dark irises, I witness annoyance and concern.
He takes a step closer, and I take one back. He doesn’t retreat; he just follows with another step until my back is pressed against the wall in his massive bedroom. I close my eyes as his hand comes up, but there is no open-palm slap or fist to my face. Instead, I’m greeted with his gentle touch as he pushes a strand of my hair behind my ear and the soft brush of his fingers along my cheeks. “I am not a patient man, but I’ll learn how to be for you. You have my word, Isla. An unwavering promise. I will not hurt you. I am a violent man, but I’m not an abuser. Those who receive my wrath aren’t victims; they’re villains.”
“I don’t want to be a victim.”
“The reality of being a victim is that eventually, you learn to be a survivor. A caterpillar doesn’t turn into a butterfly overnight. You’ll get your wings. It just takes time.”
I shut my eyes to hold back the tears raging to fall—not because I’m sad. It’s pure frustration. My resentment is directed at Paul but also myself. So many confusing emotions battle for control. Sadness, hurt, anger, humiliation, and the need for vengeance. I don’t know what I feel or how I’ll ever get control of my life.
My eyes open. I’m mesmerized by the intensity in his. “I’m tired.” The truth spills from my lips.
Bryce’s face softens as he smiles, exposing perfect dimples. He points toward the shirt lying on his bed. “Then get some sleep. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Sleep. How do I fall into a slumber in the home of someone I don’t know? But then again, is this home any worse than the one I slept in last night?
Bryce tilts his head and smiles as if reading my mind. “I promise you’re safe.”
“Promises have lost their ability to sway me. You can thank your son for that.”
“My son is nothing like me, and I’m nothing like my son. His tainted blood may be my doing, but his actions are something I don’t condone or accept. I’m a man of my word, Isla, and I’m giving you mine. You’re safe here.”
I grab his shirt off the bed and head into the bathroom. Under the harsh glare of the fluorescent light, I examine my technicolor skin. My back is still tender, and the area around my right rib cage is covered in bruises, while the other side that received the most aggression shows no signs of violence. Some men give roses to show their affection. Paul beat me with a burlap sack filled with oranges to show his hate. Sections of my flesh are tinged with purple, red, blue, green, and yellow. A rainbow, but with none of the hope and joy.
Chapter Eight
BRYCE
I had no clue my t-shirt would be the sexiest garment known to man when covering Isla’s curves. It shifts as she moves, exposing her thick thighs and caressing her breasts, making my damn mouth water.
I’m a deviant. A sick, twisted pervert. This girl is young enough to be my daughter. She’s the victim of my psychotic son, and here I am, sporting a boner while she sleeps in my bed.
She shifts in her sleep, and my shirt rides up her body. To my shock and utter joy, I’m rewarded with a glimpse of her pretty pink pussy. Holy shit, she’s not wearing panties.