Claimed by my Brother’s Best Friends (Alyssa) novel Chapter 3

*Three years later*

Alyssa

"Open this fucking door, Alyssa!" Isaac barks, banging on the bedroom door with a force that rattles the hinges. With my heart pounding, I scoop up Zuri from her crib, and slip on the small pair of noise-cancelling headphones over her tiny ears.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Mommy's going to get us out of here," I whisper, my voice trembling as I brush my cheek against hers, drawing comfort from her innocent warmth.

I warned him. I warned him that the first time he ever hit me in front of our daughter that, it would be over. But he didn't listen. Tonight, he hit me so hard that I almost fell on top of her while she was sitting on the floor.

That was the last fucking straw.

I've endured his anger and frustration time and time again, but I can't allow Zuri to grow up thinking this is okay. Even if she's only seven months old and might not remember it, I never wanted her to see that.

I'm sorry, babe. I promise it will never happen again.

I brought you some flowers, Tylenol, and an ice pack. I love you.

What will our daughter think if you take her away from her father who loves her?

If you leave me, there's nowhere you can hide that I can't find you. I swear, I'll kill all of us.

I'm so tired of the empty apologies. The love bombing. The endless cycle of makeup and breakup, over and over and fucking over again.

My daughter deserves better.

I deserve better.

Isaac continues to pound the door, his fists colliding with it repeatedly until I hear the wood splinter. "I swear to God, Alyssa. Open this goddamn door or I'll make sure you won't be able to walk for a week!" he roars, his voice growing louder, his hits harder, even more determined to break through and punish me.

My heart races, each beat like a drum echoing in my ear. I sling the diaper bag, packed with the few personal belongings Isaac didn't buy, over my shoulder and yank open the window.

Our house is only one story, so the drop isn't far. Clutching Zuri tightly to my chest, I climb out the window and sprint across the yard, moving so quickly that my bare feet barely touch the ground.

The spare key feels like a lead weight in my pocket as I round the corner of the house, heading towards my car parked in the driveway. I fumble with the key, my hands trembling as I shove it into the lock and pull the handle, climbing into the front seat and locking the door behind me.