Rebellion Phase (5): A Daughter's Desperate Plea
"I'm just tired of a daughter who calls me 'Dad' but doesn't treat me like a parent. Ah, but for you, it worked out well, didn't it?"
"Take care, then. Beatrice. You must have suffered greatly spending a whole year under a father you despise so much."
When Beatrice heard those words from Kyle, she finally understood what it meant for the world to go white before her eyes.
His face was utterly cold, devoid of even a speck of affection, and his gaze clearly conveyed his genuine disappointment in her. Her mind went blank, unable to form a single thought, and her heart plummeted.
The sensation of her blood freezing solid throughout her body was utterly terrifying.
Only then did Beatrice remember how she had consistently treated Kyle over the past year and how much insolent nonsense she had spouted. Reflecting on how that must have come across to him, tears burst forth uncontrollably.
She couldn't even blame it on the sensitivity of adolescence, when body and mind were growing rapidly. After all, who was Kyle? Consider all he had done for her.
A year ago, if Kyle hadn't come to Edenberg, Beatrice's life would have been nothing but bleak despair, without even a glimpse of happiness. She would have died as an nameless orphan in some filthy back alley, or worse, been captured by the Black Lotus Society and subjected to all sorts of horrific human experiments.
To Beatrice, Kyle was her benefactor—someone closer to a "real dad" than the Count of Edenberg who had abandoned her. In a way, he was more precious than her own life.
In truth, Beatrice cherished Kyle dearly. Her gratitude toward him was boundless, and as a girl who owed him her life, she had secretly nurtured certain unhealthy feelings that no daughter should harbor for her father.
...Perhaps that was the problem.
Unable to honestly reveal those feelings toward Kyle, or rather, in a position where she couldn't, Beatrice had no choice but to bury her true heart under layers of confusion. Puberty had arrived at the worst possible timing, exacerbating things.
For a whole year, she had acted insolent toward Kyle, as if she had forgotten his grace entirely. She thought that was the only way to hide her emotions and pretend those twisted feelings of lust didn't exist. Maintaining her prickly attitude toward him did seem to make those emotions fade somewhat—at least, that's what her brain tricked her into believing.
But in reality, that wasn't the biggest issue.
...Why did I do that? So stupid.
She had thought everything would be fine if she just kept it up. That she could live a happy life in that two-story mansion with Kyle forever.
She hadn't even considered the possibility that he might grow fed up with her attitude.
How foolish and dense she had been. Beatrice truly berated herself for it.
It was only when Kyle was finally casting her out that she came to her senses—how idiotic was that?
"...I'm sorry. I was wrong..."
"..."
"I, hic, Beatrice was wrong. Dad, Daddy. Don't go, I'm sorryyy..."
At that point, there were no other options left.
There was only one path remaining: admit all her wrongs, apologize profusely, and beg for mercy to appeal to his emotions. What else could she do?
To avoid being abandoned by Kyle, pride? That meant nothing.
When the one meaning in her otherwise colorless life was about to slip away, even someone as foolish as her wouldn't cling to pride in this final moment.
There might or might not be another chance. But if she let this moment pass, if she let Kyle walk away now, she'd lose even that uncertain opportunity.
Hic, sob... You promised not to abandon me, Dad. You promised to stay by my side forever. I was all wrong, so keep your promise, please... Yeah? Hic, waaah."
She didn't care how pathetic she looked. It could be messy, wretched, anything—as long as it turned Kyle's heart around, she'd use any method.
She had to cling to him, sobbing and wailing, even dropping to her knees if needed.
For Beatrice, "Dad"—Kyle—was everything. A life without him by her side was unimaginable.
She resolved to hold on by any means necessary. And after pleading desperately...
"Haa."
"..."
"...Are you going to keep being rude to Dad from now on too, Riche?"
Beatrice finally seized her last chance at survival.
The familiar nickname returned, along with a stern but reconsidering tone.
"That's enough. I understand your intent, so get up now. Let's go home together."
"...Ungh!"
Thanks to her vigorous nodding, as if her head might fall off, Beatrice earned Kyle's generous forgiveness.
In a situation so tense it nearly brought on hyperventilation, a merciful lifeline had descended. A faint light of relief dawned on her tear-streaked, messy face.
But it wasn't enough. This wasn't sufficient.
Beatrice needed a clearer assurance.
...Dad. Daddy, DaddyDaddyDaddy...
Dad might still be angry with her. Right now, he might have forgiven her only reluctantly because she was crying her heart out. He was kind and gentle, after all.
He might still find her presence unwelcome but taken her back out of old sentiment. That possibility loomed large.
"...Whether it's ten times or twenty, punish me as much as you want until your anger fades."
That was why. To eliminate that unpleasant possibility, Beatrice adopted a new strategy.
If he was still angry, she should let him vent those pent-up emotions, right? A resolve to atone fully for her own mistakes.
To that end, she obediently braced against the wall and lifted her skirt hem submissively.
She'd vaguely heard that commoners disciplined their children this way sometimes. As a noble-born lady, it was unfamiliar, but she had no intention of avoiding it.
With all preparations complete for a sound scolding from Kyle, she murmured hazily.
"Punish your naughty daughter, Dad..."
"..."
...She didn't realize it, but that plea, along with her gestures and expression, carried enough destructive power to steal Kyle's soul.
"Ah..."
"..."
"No, this is, um. No. I won't do it. No? I can't. Come here quickly."
My brain short-circuited for a moment, as if paralyzed, but fortunately, I regained my senses in time.
I mentally incinerated the fact that my gaze had momentarily locked onto Beatrice's exposed thigh as she lifted her skirt.
Thwack! I tossed aside the scabbard of the sword she'd handed me and scowled.
Not that I had much room to talk, having just used shock therapy to torment her moments ago.
But at least as a father, I didn't want to lay a hand on my daughter—no matter the context, even if it was discipline. I simply lacked the confidence to strike her.
It might be somewhat outdated or sexist thinking, but she was my daughter, wasn't she? A girl, not a boy. That alone warranted a different approach to discipline.
Spanking a sixteen-year-old teenage girl with a switch? With a scabbard, no less? No matter how medieval this world was, that was insane—at least to me.
I spoke firmly to Beatrice, who looked back at me with eyes brimming with affection.
"I swear I won't lay a hand on you, Riche. No matter how wrong you were, you don't deserve that kind of treatment."
"..."
"Besides, I've already forgiven you. You apologized sincerely, didn't you? That's enough. So hurry up and... let go of that skirt hem."
I fixed my eyes firmly above her neck. One glance downward, and my inner morality would rise up to condemn me.
Beatrice had lifted her skirt almost all the way, as if truly begging for the rod. Frankly, her underwear was nearly visible.
Daughter. She was my daughter. Even if adopted.
I recited the Heart Sutra inwardly to maintain my composure.
But.
"...I don't want to."
"?"
Even after I clearly said I'd forgiven her, she didn't budge.
Beatrice murmured in a small voice, gripping the wall even tighter and lowering her head, assuming a posture perfect for me to strike her bottom or thighs.
"Dad... You still look angry at me. You don't have to hold back. Hit me as much as you want, quickly. Discipline me."
"I'm not? I'm not angry??"
"If you don't like using the scabbard, use your palm—please discipline this foolish daughter... I can't bear the guilt like this."
"You're not listening to me again...?"
Was this what they called déjà vu? It felt like this had happened before.
Beatrice switched back to stubborn mode, squeezing her eyes shut and shouting.
"I, Riche, won't move from this spot until Dad properly disciplines me...!"
"..."
So, she'd confuse my mind in yet another way, this daughter of mine.
I suddenly felt dizzy and pressed my forehead, then spoke carefully.
"...At the very least, could you go back to your normal speech? The formal tone doesn't suit you—it's weirdly off-putting."
I knew she was using polite speech to apologize, but she'd always been casual with me, so this felt more awkward.
Never mind that weird third-person stuff.
Beatrice wasn't the tomboy type at heart. Even if she'd grown colder lately, she definitely hadn't been like this a year ago. Unlike Sina's inherently calm nature, this formality grated on me...
"...If you discipline me, I'll switch back to normal speech."
"No."
"So hurry... Let me atone, Dad..."
I tilted my head and met Beatrice's glaring eyes with a weary expression.
Why did her gaze flicker with such heat while begging for punishment? And that faint blush on her cheeks—what was that? Was the red I saw just my imagination?
It was dizzying. A severe mental blow.
My brain refused to accept what was happening. I glanced reflexively at the scabbard I'd tossed aside and wrestled intensely with myself.
...Scold her harshly again and pretend this never happened? Possible, but my gut told me it wouldn't end well.
Even seeing her pitiful, rain-soaked-puppy expression.
Was this really the moment to go through with it? Was it?
Unable to shake the unease, yet compelled as if enchanted, I reached out and picked up the empty scabbard from the floor.
"...Ah..."
Beatrice let out a subtly excited breath, her blush now blatantly obvious.
Displaying profound reluctance, I gave her one final confirmation.
"Really... If I discipline you, you'll go back to being the old Riche? No lies?"
"...Y-Yes. I promise, Dad."
"Th, haa..."
Overwhelmed by stifled frustration, I sighed deeply and ruffled my hair messily.
Staring at the thin scabbard in my hand, I muttered inwardly.
...Ah.
I really don't get it.
Crack!
"...Hyah!?"
With a half-resigned, hollow expression, I swung the scabbard with moderate force, and a clear smack echoed alongside a sharp moan.
...And in the future, looking back, this moment would be one I'd count among my deepest regrets.
I should have somehow glossed over it back then.
Because at this instant, my daughter awakened to some seriously peculiar tastes.
No use regretting and pounding the ground—it was already too late.
"...Hyaaah..."
Beatrice let out a strangely coquettish moan as the scabbard struck the soft flesh just below her hip, and a chill premonition made me shudder and step back.
Her crimson eyes, glancing sideways at me, were melting into a hazy glaze.