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)
“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 word bed on 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.”
Chapter Six
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.”
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 believe she was the aggressor. “What did my piece of shit son do to you?”