Chapter 69 - SIXTY NINE

Chapter 69: Chapter SIXTY NINE

VINCENT

The next morning, I prepared breakfast, grateful for the routine. The eggs were scrambled exactly how she used to like them. The toast cut diagonally. Fresh fruit arranged on the plate. A glass of milk because she needed the calcium.

Normal things that a father would do for his daughter.

I would be that person. I had to be that person.

I entered her room with the tray, and she was already awake. But her eyes were staring at nothing.

She didn’t even acknowledge my presence, or turn her head when I walked in.

I set the tray on the nightstand as quietly as I could.

"Sit up and eat," I said. My voice came out firmer, almost harsh. "I don’t want to call the doctors again."

I knew she hated the doctors. She would do almost anything to avoid them coming back with their needles and their tests and their clinical assessment of her mental state.

The doctors. I’d called them that day not only to feed her through the IV, although that had been critically important.

I’d also needed them to check other things. To run tests I couldn’t run myself. Like ensuring she wasn’t pregnant with that bastard’s child or contracted some diseases he might have given her.

The thought of Daniel’s seed growing inside her—the image of her pregnant with his child, bound to him through biology had made me want to reach into her and rip it out with my bare hands if necessary.

I’d been relieved when the tests came back negative for both pregnancy and disease. No baby. No STIs. Just malnutrition and dehydration and psychological trauma.

Just psychological trauma. They’d said it was a small thing. As though the inside of my Angel’s head wasn’t a crime scene I’d arrived at too late to preserve.

Angel sat up slowly, picking at her food with no enthusiasm. Each bite seemed like she was forcing herself to chew and swallow only because she knew I’d call the doctors again if she didn’t.

Whatever worked. Whatever kept her alive long enough for me to fix this.

My gaze studied her while she ate, noticing the changes.

She had more colour in her cheeks now than she’d had a week ago. The deathly pallor was fading, replaced by a healthier pink tone.

Her lips were full and naturally rose-colored, no longer the dry, chapped things they’d been when I first brought her home. Her hair had regained some of its shine, the golden waves catching the morning light filtering through the curtains.

She was healing. Her body, at least. The shell was repairing itself even while the thing inside it refused to cooperate.

She was beautiful. Had always been beautiful. Even broken and hating me with every fiber of her being, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

My gaze traced her face — that delicate nose, those eyes that used to light up like stars when I walked into a room. Now they were dull, lifeless, like someone had extinguished the light from inside her.

I should have stopped looking there.

But my eyes betrayed me.

They followed the trail downward against my will. To the column of her throat. The delicate collarbones visible above her nightgown’s neckline. The swell of her breasts beneath the thin cotton fabric.

Her nipples were hard. Straining against the material. Creating small peaks that were clearly visible, impossible not to notice.

Last night’s memories struck instantly. My cock began to harden again despite every mental command I gave it to stop.

Fuck.

I looked away quickly, forcing my gaze to the wall behind her instead. I mentally began to count the brush strokes in the paint. I needed to be focused on anything except the way her body looked in that nightgown.

What the hell was wrong with me?

She’s your daughter. You tucked her in at night. You helped her with homework. I tried to remind myself of all these things. But the reminders were getting weaker. Quieter. And the other voice — the one that sounded nothing like a father — was getting louder every day.

When she finished eating — or rather, when she’d pushed enough food around her plate that I wouldn’t force the issue — she set it aside and lay back down.

She was staring at the wall again, like I wasn’t even there.

Dismissing me without words.

"Do you want anything else?" I asked, even though it was obvious that she was ignoring me like I didn’t exist.

She was silent for so long I thought she wouldn’t answer.

"Can I go outside?"

The question surprised me. Fuck, I missed hearing her voice.

It was the first time she’d requested anything from me in days. She was speaking without being prompted or forced.

I was afraid to hope that maybe, possibly, some part of the girl I knew still existed under all this damage.

I contemplated it carefully, weighing the risks and benefits.

She was still weak, fragile mentally and physically.

I was afraid to let her out of my sight for even a moment.

What if she ran? If she hurt herself?

"What?" Her voice came out sharp now. Her eyes slant with accusation. "Are you planning to keep me prisoner?"

"No." I said, "Of course not. You can go wherever you want."

There was no fucking way I’d let her go anywhere on her own. Not now. Not ever. I told myself it was protection. That I was keeping her safe. But Daniel had told her the same thing, hadn’t he?

The parallel should have made me sick. It did make me sick. It just didn’t make me stop.

"I’ll take you out this afternoon," I said, already planning it in my head. "We can get some fresh air. It’ll be good for you."

Her expression didn’t change. She just nodded once, a small movement that might have meant agreement or might have meant she just wanted me to leave.

Then she closed her eyes, clearly done with this conversation. Done with me.

I stood there for a moment longer, watching her breathe.

Then I forced myself to leave before I think something unforgivable.

Before I became the monster she already thought I was — or worse, a different kind of monster entirely.