Chapter 5

ChapterFive

ISLA

We sit in silence across from each other at the rich maple table. I gaze around the room, decorated in warm mahoganies and russet oranges. A little odd for a park avenue apartment but a pleasant contrast to the overflow of white at Paul’s place.

The furniture suits Bryce. It’s solid and robust, like him. He’s also gentle and kind, with an underlying air of authority and control. He’s everything I’d hoped Paul was when we first met.

Bryce watches me as I move my food mindlessly on my plate. I haven’t taken a bite of my food, even though it smells divine—beef tenderloin with some sort of sauce, button mushrooms, garlic mashed potatoes, and maple-glazed Brussels sprouts.

“Greta will be disappointed you didn’t try her steak,” Bryce says as he places a piece of medium-rare beef between his lips. Can a man’s mouth be described as beautiful? This man’s is.

“I’m not hungry.”

The corners of Bryce’s lips turn up to reveal charming dimples. He places his fork on the bone china plate, and his dark eyes focus intently on me. I swear they penetrate my flesh to the very core of my soul. “You’re a stunning woman, Isla. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. That being said, I’m not blind. My son hasn’t taken care of you, which is a shame because I’ve always instilled in him the value of caring for our most precious belongings.”

“I’m not a possession.”

“We’re all possessions, Isla. Some don’t realize it, some deny it, some hide it, while others succumb to it. Belonging to someone isn’t a bad thing if the owner knows your worth. Understands how to take care of you, brightens you and makes you sparkle. If my son was a real man, he would’ve put you on a pedestal, not had you collecting dust in a dark corner.”

“Paul beat me. No sense in sugarcoating it.”

“I don’t sugarcoat anything, Isla. He didn’t just bruise your skin or fracture your bones. He launched a full-fledged assault. He wanted to break more than your body. He wanted to crush your identity.”

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 truths I 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 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.”