The sound of the slap seemed to be registered before the movement. John was seething still, his hand stinging where he'd struck Isabelle across the face. "DON'T talk to ME like that!" he hissed, flexing his fingers. "You do as I say or so help me. So help me." He put his hand to his mouth, chewing at the edge of his index finger cuticle, tearing at the skin with his teeth. It was a bad habit he hadn't indulged in for a year in a half, since he got out. It was Richard, it was always Richard, destroying everything, ruining his life, taking everything away. Taking Isabelle away.