Doesn’t End

Isabella

The wine poured all over me—red soaking into my blonde hair, staining it, bleeding down the white of my dress. I froze where I stood, my body locking before my mind could catch up.

Belts.

Shattered bottles.

Open wounds.

Blood.

My father's rage.

My mother's deliberate blindness.

I froze.

Yes.

I completely froze.

Jennifer's laughter rang through the room—sharp, cruel—until it cut off abruptly.

Silence.

A heartbeat passed, and I saw it—Jennifer's wrist caught in Richard's grip.

"What the fuck, Rich?" she snapped, yanking against him. "What are you doing?"

"This is too much." Richard's voice was hard as he ripped the bottle from her hand and hurled it away. It shattered against the floor with a deafening crash.

The sound split me open.

I slapped my hands over my ears.

"No—no—no!" The words tore out of me before I could stop them. "I'm sorry!"

Every eye snapped to me—Jennifer's, Richard's... and Asher's.

His dark gaze burned straight through me, stripping, dissecting. Like he was reading every crack, every weakness, every memory I hadn't buried deep enough.

He pushed back, standing—

But Richard reached me first.

"Hey," he murmured, gentle as his hands settled on my shoulders. Wine streamed down my hair, staining his pristine white slacks, but he didn't even look at it.

I trembled as I lifted my eyes to him.

This was Richard.

A monster—yes.

But not that kind of monster.

Not my father.

He's gone—I whispered to myself  in my head without meaning to.

"Are you okay?" Richard asked softly.

I swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes."

The sharpness of Asher's voice cracked through the room like a whip.

"Rolly," he continued. "Now."

She hurried over. "Yes, sir."

"Clean this mess. Take her upstairs. Wash her up and put her back to work."

His words were cold. Commanding. Absolute.

Richard turned toward him. "She's shaking, Asher." His voice dropped.

Asher didn't even flinch.

"Doesn't fucking matter," he said. "She's here to pay—and she will. You know the whole story. Don't start getting soft now." His eyes locked onto Richard's. "Or do I need to remind you why this is happening?"

Something passed between them—silent, heavy.

Richard straightened.

Then he stepped away.

"It's all an act anyway," Jennifer scoffed, folding her arms.

Rolly came to my side.

Richard shoved his hands into his pockets—and just like that, he stopped looking at me. Whatever was written on Asher's face had silenced him completely.

Rolly helped me to my feet, guiding me toward the stairs. My body shook violently now, panic clawing up my throat.

At the last step, I looked back.

Jennifer was pressed against Asher, her fingers digging into his arm.

But his eyes were on me.

Burning.

Unforgiving.

Far too knowing.

He was right.

He was going to make this worse.

Punish me for crimes I didn't even know I'd committed.

Or maybe—

Just maybe—

It was because we were bound by the same monster.

Our father.

***

I scrubbed every tile.

Every corner of the estate.

By evening, I was exhausted—utterly, devastatingly exhausted. Every bone in my body screamed in protest. Every muscle begged me to stop. But there were always just a few more corners left. And so I kept going.

When the cleaning was finally done, I dragged myself back to my room, shut the door, and collapsed in the bathroom.

I cried.

Sobbed.

Begged God.

Then cried again.

Crying was the only thing left to me.

Jennifer's stares.

The hatred in Asher's eyes—like I was a criminal. Like I was dirt beneath their feet.

It clung to my skin no matter how hard I scrubbed. I shampooed my hair again and again, washed my body until it burned, desperate to rid myself of the sharp scent of cleaning chemicals—and of them.

I was already broken.

What could my stepbrother possibly gain from breaking me again?

When I finally turned off the shower, steam clung to the mirrors. I stared at my reflection.

The belt marks on my shoulders were gone now. So were the ones on my back. Only the faint bruises on my lower spine remained, tender, aching if I moved the wrong way.

I looked wrecked.

Red eyes.

Swollen lips.

Flushed cheeks, burning as if fever had set my skin on fire.

Maybe it had.

I'd always been fragile—too easy for people to destroy.

I wrapped a towel tightly around myself and stepped out of the bathroom.

The moment I shut the door and turned around—

I flinched.

Gasped.

Asher.

Still immaculate.

Seated casually on the edge of my bed.

And then his eyes lifted to me.

His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing tattoos that coiled over his forearms. A few buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing dark ink across his chest—dragons' eyes, a cross, symbols I didn't recognize but somehow felt.

His gaze traveled slowly.

From my bare feet.

Up my damp legs.

To the towel clutched tight against my chest.

To my collarbone.

My face.

My wet hair.

It lingered.

Too long.

"What... what are you doing here?" I stammered, gripping the towel tighter.

Fear didn't even begin to describe it.

He was a monster.

And he hated me.

I would've given anything to run.

"Come here, little one," he said softly, curling two fingers in a beckoning motion.

I swallowed hard.

"What are you—"

"I don't like repeating myself, Bella."

His voice dropped.

Darkened.

Dangerous.

A shiver raced down my spine.

Holding my breath, I stepped toward him, stopping a foot away.

He looked at me again.

As if his eyes were tracing every droplet of water clinging to my skin.

Then—

He reached out.

His hands closed around my waist and pulled me forward.

I gasped silently as he drew me between his thighs, trapping me there. His grip was firm. Possessive.

His eyes lifted to mine—dark, unreadable.

"Well," he murmured, voice low and intimate, "now that you're living under my roof..."

His thumb pressed lightly into my side.

"...let's go over some rules, shall we?"