Daddy's Girl: Raised To Please Him

Chapter 9

Hours blurred into a daze as the car pulled into the driveway. Sydney stared blankly out the window, raindrops sliding down the glass in erratic trails. The rhythmic tapping of the rain against the car roof seemed to echo the dull thudding in her chest. Every part of her ached—her muscles screamed with exhaustion, her wrists burned raw from the rope, and her head throbbed with the remnants of terror. But it was nothing compared to the hollow, aching void that had settled in her chest.

The house loomed ahead, its porch light casting a warm, golden glow that felt entirely misplaced. It was a scene she should've found comforting, but instead, it only made her stomach twist. Safety felt foreign now, an illusion she didn't dare trust.

Alan parked the car and cut the engine. For a moment, the silence inside the car stretched between them, broken only by the rain. He turned to her, his eyes scanning her face with quiet concern.

"Come on," he said softly, his voice almost pleading. "We're here."

Sydney hesitated. Her hands trembled as she unbuckled her seatbelt, and it felt like an eternity before she could summon the strength to open the door. The cold air hit her like a slap, but she barely flinched, her movements mechanical as she climbed out of the car.

The porch steps felt steeper than they should have, each one an obstacle her legs could barely conquer. Alan stayed close, his hand hovering near her back as though he were afraid she might crumble if he didn't stay close enough.

The front door was ajar, the faint murmur of voices carrying into the night. As they stepped inside, the warmth of the house enveloped her, but it felt stifling rather than comforting. She blinked, her gaze landing on the living room.

Her mother was there, standing near the couch with an officer. The man's navy-blue uniform and serious demeanor made Sydney's breath hitch. He had a notepad in hand, scribbling something as her mother spoke in a tone thick with frustration and worry.

The moment her mother caught sight of her, her expression froze, a cocktail of relief, anger, and despair flashing across her face. Sydney braced herself for the onslaught of questions she knew would follow, for the accusations, the frantic motherly scolding—but none of it came. Not yet.

"Sydney..." her mother started, stepping toward her. The officer glanced up, his gaze assessing her from head to toe, his brows knitting together at the sight of her bruised, battered form.

"I don't want to talk about it," Sydney said, her voice hoarse and trembling. She couldn't look at her mother, couldn't meet her eyes, not now. "Not now."

Her mother opened her mouth, but Sydney didn't wait to hear whatever words were about to spill out. She walked past her, her shoulders slumping further under the weight of everything she couldn't put into words.

Alan was at her side in an instant, his hand gently brushing her elbow. "Let's get you upstairs," he murmured.

She didn't protest, didn't acknowledge the officer or her mother again. She couldn't. There was nothing left inside her to offer them—no explanations, no reassurances. She moved like a ghost, barely registering the world around her as Alan guided her up the stairs.

Her room was exactly as she'd left it, a small, messy sanctuary filled with the remnants of a life that now felt impossibly distant. The sight of it, so unchanged, made her chest tighten. It was too normal, too familiar, and she wasn't sure if that comforted her or broke her further.

The door to her room clicked shut behind them, the sound oddly final. Sydney stood there, wrapped in her own numbness, as Alan moved purposefully toward the bedside lamp and switched it on. The soft light filled the room, making the shadows in the corners retreat, but the ones clinging to her heart remained as heavy as ever.

"You don't have to stay," she said, her voice hoarse and trembling. She didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on a worn patch of the carpet. "I can take care of myself."

Alan turned to face her, his brows furrowed, his jaw tight. "You call this taking care of yourself?" His voice was low, and steady, but there was an edge to it, a quiet force that made her stomach twist.

She lifted her chin, her expression defiant despite the exhaustion weighing her down. "I don't need anyone's help. Especially not yours. My mom might come up here, and—"

"I don't care," Alan interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. He stepped closer, his presence commanding yet gentle, like a storm that threatened to break but held itself back. "You're not fine, Sydney. And I'm not leaving you like this."

She opened her mouth to argue, to insist that she was fine, that she could handle herself, but the words caught in her throat. Alan was looking at her—not with pity, not with condescension, but with a fierce, unwavering determination that left her breathless.

Before she could protest again, he reached past her and turned the lock on her door with a quiet click. The sound sent a shiver down her spine, not out of fear but something else—something she couldn't quite name.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Taking care of you," he replied simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

She stared at him, her mind scrambling for a response, but before she could say anything, he moved toward her small bathroom. He flicked on the light, and the soft hum of the fan filled the air.

"Come here," he said, his voice softer now but no less commanding.

"I can do it myself," she insisted, her arms wrapping tightly around herself.

Alan turned back to her, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. "You can't even stand up straight, Sydney. Let me help you. Please."

The "please" was what broke her. It wasn't a plea—it was a promise, one that said he wasn't here to hurt her or to take control away from her. He was here because he cared because he couldn't stand to see her like this.

Wordlessly, she followed him into the bathroom. The space was small and intimate, the mirror fogging slightly as Alan turned on the water, testing it with his hand until it was warm.

"Sit down," he said, motioning to the closed toilet lid.

She hesitated, her pride warring with her exhaustion, but eventually, she obeyed. Alan crouched in front of her, his fingers gentle as he brushed her hair away from her face. His touch was so careful, so deliberate, that it made her throat tighten.

"You don't have to do this," she said, her voice barely audible.

"I know," he replied, his eyes locking onto hers. "But I am."

His gaze never wavered, never strayed. Even as he helped her to her feet, even as he guided her toward the shower, his focus remained entirely on her face. There was nothing leering or invasive in his expression—just a quiet, unshakable resolve.

"Turn around," he said softly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the hem of her shirt. She hesitated, her cheeks burning with shame and vulnerability.

"It's okay," Alan said, his voice steady. "I'm not going to look. I just want to make sure you're clean and warm. That's all."

Something in his voice, in the sincerity of his words, eased the tightness in her chest. Slowly, she turned her back to him and pulled off the tattered, bloodied remnants of her clothes. She felt the cool air brush against her skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Alan's presence behind her.

The sound of the shower filled the room as he adjusted the spray, making sure it wasn't too hot. "Step in," he instructed, still keeping his eyes averted.

Sydney obeyed, the warm water cascading over her battered body. The sensation was almost too much—it was soothing and overwhelming all at once, washing away the dirt and blood but leaving her raw and exposed.

Alan grabbed a washcloth, soaking it in the water before holding it out to her. "Can I help?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her breath hitched, but she nodded, unable to find the words to refuse him.

He worked carefully, his touch as gentle as a whisper as he wiped away the grime from her arms, her back, and her shoulders. His hands never lingered, never strayed, and his eyes never left hers. The intensity in his gaze was almost unbearable, not because it was invasive but because it was so achingly sincere.

"You're okay," Alan murmured as he worked, his voice a steady balm to her frayed nerves, though there was a rough edge to it—like he was holding something back. "You're safe now. I promise."

The warmth of the water coursed over her skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his presence so close to her. His hands moved with careful precision, the cloth brushing against her skin as if she were made of glass. Every touch was deliberate, controlled, though she could see it in his eyes—the strain. The quiet battle he was fighting with himself.

His jaw was tight, a muscle twitching there as he focused intently on her face, never once letting his gaze stray. But there was something simmering beneath his calm exterior, a fire he was struggling to keep contained. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long when he wiped the dirt from her collarbone, and she could feel the faint tremble in his hand.

Alan exhaled sharply and took a step back, dragging a hand through his damp hair. For a moment, he just stood there, the tension rolling off him in waves. His hands clenched at his sides before he forced them to relax, as though reminding himself of the line he wouldn't cross.

Sydney blinked, the realization hitting her as the tears spilled silently down her cheeks. The rawness of the moment—his restraint, his care—was too much, and the weight of everything finally broke through.

Alan's eyes softened as he saw her tears, and his expression shifted, the intensity melting into something gentler. He reached out, hesitated, then cupped her cheek lightly with his hand, his thumb brushing away a tear. His touch was scorching, but not from lust—it was something deeper, something that burned in her chest and left her breathless.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice cracking, her eyes searching his as if trying to understand why he was doing this for her.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Don't thank me," he said, his voice rough. "Just... let me help you."

With that, he grabbed a towel and turned away, giving her a moment to collect herself. He handed it to her, still not looking, but when she faltered, her hands trembling too much to wrap it around herself, he stepped in again.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his hands hovering near her.

She nodded, unable to speak, and he carefully draped the towel around her, tucking it securely before guiding her out of the shower.

Every movement was deliberate, every action so gentle it made her chest ache. When it came time to dress her, she tried to argue, her voice weak. "I can—"

Alan handed her the fresh clothes he'd found his jaw tight and his hands steady despite the unmistakable tension radiating from him. Sydney stared at the bundle in her hands, her fingers trembling too much to even start.

"I can do it," she murmured, her voice faint, though even she wasn't convinced she had the strength.

Alan crouched in front of her, his voice low and firm. "Let me help you, Sydney."

She shook her head, her damp hair clinging to her face. "You shouldn't..."

"Sydney," he said her name with a weight that silenced her protests, his eyes locking onto hers with such intensity it made her breath catch. "I don't care what I should or shouldn't do. You're not fine, and I'm not leaving you like this."

His tone brooked no argument, and when her resistance wavered, he took it as her consent. Alan moved with deliberate care, his movements calculated, his breathing just a bit too shallow as he took the fabric of her shirt.

"Arms up," he murmured, his voice rough but steady.

She hesitated, her cheeks flushing, but she complied, her arms trembling as she raised them. Alan slipped the soft shirt over her head, the brush of his fingers against her skin igniting sparks that coursed through her like wildfire. His hands, strong and sure, skimmed her shoulders as he adjusted the fabric, his touch leaving trails of heat that made her shiver despite herself.

Every move was unhurried, as though he was battling something within himself. His gaze never once dropped below her face, though his sharp, uneven breaths betrayed the storm raging behind his eyes.

"Step in," he said quietly, holding out the pair of clean sweatpants.

Her legs felt weak, her knees threatening to buckle under the weight of the moment, but she managed to balance herself with his steadying hands guiding her. Alan crouched again, his large hands sliding the fabric up her legs with a precision that made her pulse quicken. His knuckles brushed her bare skin, a fleeting touch that burned hotter than the shower head, and he froze for a moment as if needing to compose himself.

Alan's breathing was heavier now, his chest rising and falling as though each inhale took effort. His hands paused at her waist as he adjusted the waistband, his fingers lingering a moment too long, his jaw tightening as if he were physically restraining himself from doing anything more.

"Done," he rasped, his voice thick and strained. He stepped back quickly, dragging a hand through his damp hair as though needing to create some distance between them.

Sydney caught her reflection in the mirror across the room—the flushed cheeks, the wide, startled eyes. But it was Alan's expression that held her attention. His face was a warzone of emotions—concern, restraint, and something darker, something smoldering that he refused to let surface.

"Alan..." she began, her voice barely audible, but he interrupted her, his voice a low, guttural whisper.

"You don't have to say anything." His eyes met hers, burning with a heat that left her breathless, but his resolve never wavered. "Let's get you to bed."

Her knees nearly gave out, but Alan was there, his arm sliding around her waist with an ease that sent shivers racing up her spine. His touch was both tender and unyielding, a paradox that left her reeling.

As he guided her to the bed, Sydney couldn't help but steal a glance at him. His lips were pressed into a firm line, his brow furrowed with effort, as though he were holding himself together by sheer force of will.

Alan's eyes stayed fixed on hers the entire time, even as she felt her cheeks flush. It wasn't that he wasn't aware of her vulnerability—he was acutely aware, and that was what made his restraint so staggering.

By the time he eased her onto the bed, tucking the blanket around her shoulders, Sydney felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her. But the fear lingered, coiled tightly in her chest, making her shiver despite the warmth of the blanket.

Alan stood there for a moment, staring down at her, his hands flexing at his sides. She could see it in his face—that quiet, desperate need to stay, to protect her.

"I'm scared," she admitted in a small voice, her fingers clutching the edge of the blanket.

That was all it took. Alan sat down beside her, his movements deliberate, as if to reassure her he wasn't going anywhere. He slid onto the bed, lying down beside her, his arm looping around her waist. The strength in his hold was unyielding, but it was his touch that undid her—steady, comforting, and so achingly tender it made her chest tighten.

"Is this okay?" he asked again, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, her face buried in his chest, the sound of his heartbeat steady and grounding. "Yes," she murmured, her voice muffled.

He let out a breath, the tension in his body softening, though she could feel the faint tremor in his hand as he stroked her back soothingly. His other hand cradled the back of her head, his thumb brushing against her hairline in a rhythm that felt protective, possessive, yet so careful it made her want to cry all over again.

Alan's jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if he were willing himself to keep control. The heat radiating off him was unmistakable, and she could feel the way his body responded to hers, the way his muscles tensed whenever she shifted.

But he never moved, never crossed the line. Instead, he buried his face in her hair, his breath warm against her scalp as he whispered, "I've got you. You're safe with me. Always."

Sydney's fingers clung to his shirt, her body trembling against his, but for the first time, the fear started to fade. His arms around her, his presence so solid and unwavering, made her feel like nothing could touch her—not the memories, not the pain, not the darkness that had threatened to consume her.

And as they lay there together, the world outside her door forgotten, Sydney felt something she hadn't dared to hope for in a long time: peace.

"Alan?" she whispered.

His eyes lifted to meet hers, the storm of emotions in them calming slightly at the sound of her voice. "What is it?" he asked, his voice a quiet rasp, as if afraid to shatter the fragile stillness between them.

She hesitated, unsure of how to articulate what she was feeling. There was fear, yes, but also a deep sense of gratitude and something else—something she wasn't ready to name. "Don't... leave me alone tonight."

His brows furrowed slightly, his thumb brushing against the back of her hand. "I wasn't planning to," he said softly, a flicker of determination crossing his face.

Sydney glanced toward the door, her heart skipping a beat. "What if my mom—"

"I don't care," Alan interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. His grip on her tightened slightly, grounding her. "Right now, all I care about is you."

His words hit her with the force of a tidal wave, and she felt her throat tighten as tears welled up again. For so long, she'd felt like she was drowning, fighting to stay afloat on her own. But here he was, offering her something she hadn't dared hope for: safety.