Chapter 106 Beneath the surface

Chapter 106 Beneath the surface
Ernest’s face was inches from mine, his dark eyes blazing with feral, proprietary rage. "You think I don’t know about you and Cole’s… Special connection? You think I don't know about his little fixations? Tell me right now... Do you have any feelings for him?"

The taste of copper flooded my mouth. The sheer force of his grip was suffocating, but through the panic, I knew I had pushed the exact button I needed to convince him.

"N-no!" I choked out, tears of genuine pain spilling over my eyelashes. "Of course not! Daddy, please, it's not like that! I swear to you, it’s not like that!"

Ernest stared into my eyes. Slowly, agonizingly, the violent tension in his jaw slackened.

His brutal grip softened into a stroking touch, his thumb smearing the blood from my lip across my chin.

"Of course you don't," he purred, smiling with terrifying, doting warmth. "My beautiful, obedient princess... You would never betray me like that, would you?"

I shook my head. God, he needs to die.

"Well, regardless of how you feel," he continued. "I'm led to believe Cole nurtures entirely inappropriate desires toward you. Therefore, I don’t trust him anywhere near you. Nathaniel will escort you. For your own safety, my dear."

I forced myself to tremble, looking down at his polished shoes. "Jessica will still make a scene. She hates me."

"Then it will be a wonderful learning opportunity for the two of you," Ernest dismissed lightly, smoothing my ruffled hair back into place with paternal care. "You'll be family soon enough. You might as well learn to tolerate one another."

I lowered my chin, wrapping my arms tightly around my waist, making myself look as small, broken, and thoroughly defeated as possible.

"Can I go now, Daddy?" my voice came out small, hoarse, and fragile. "I have to study for my midterms."

"Of course, my love."

He leaned down, wrapping an arm around my waist, and pulled me against his chest. His mouth came down on mine—heavy, wet, and invasive. His tongue forced its way past my parted lips, tasting the copper blood he had just drawn from my mouth. I stood frozen like a corpse, enduring the suffocating violation until he finally pulled back and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.

"Of course, my love," he said, smiling at me. "Go on, then."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the study, keeping my pace steady, deliberate, and quiet until the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me.

The moment my shoes hit the second-floor landing, I broke into a frantic sprint.

I slammed my bedroom door, threw both deadbolts, and bolted into the bathroom. I dropped hard to my knees on the cold marble tile, barely reaching the porcelain bowl before my stomach violently convulsed. I threw up until my throat burned raw, coughing and dry-heaving as hot tears streamed down my face. I rinsed my mouth three times, scrubbing a damp towel across my lips until they bled, desperately trying to scrape the ghost of his saliva from my skin.

Eyes on the road, Iris. Just keep your damn eyes on the road. Don’t look at the wreckage in the rearview mirror! Look at you—decked in Colombian emeralds, father’s favorite little princess, living the absolute dream. Such a lucky, spoiled girl. Best-dressed whore in the entire territory, and all it cost was a little spit and a mouthful of blood!

The familiar, icy fog of dissociation began creeping around the edges of my mind—the mental trapdoor that usually swallowed me whole whenever he touched me, dragging me beneath the surface so I didn't have to feel it. My brain wanted to shut down. It wanted to go numb, play dead, and let the storm pass.

Then Damon’s voice echoed in my head.

You're a fucking Alpha, Iris.

I stopped fighting the panic.

Instead of shoving the disgust down into the dark, I grabbed it. I pulled up the memory of his thick fingers twisted in my hair, the bruising pinch on my jaw, the sickening drag of his mouth over mine, and the twelve long years of watching the boys I loved bully me. I took every drop of that helpless, suffocating fury and rammed it directly into the muscles of my arms.

My hand reached out. On the edge of the marble counter sat a heavy, solid brass vintage soap dish—thick, dense metal weighing nearly two pounds.

I wrapped my fingers around it.

I didn't let the fog take me. I pulled the rage up from the marrow of my bones and squeezed.

The solid brass bend. It crumpled like cardboard. The dense metal groaned, collapsing inward beneath my palm as if it were soft wax, folding into a mangled, flattened lump between my knuckles.

I gasped, stumbling backward against the tiled wall, dropping the ruined metal. It struck the floor with a dull, heavy clatter.

I lifted my head, staring into the vanity mirror.

My breath caught in my throat.

My pupils had fully dilated, swallowed by a ring of incandescent crimson.