Shattered Asylum

Chapter 67

Aven's POV

Warning: mature content

I wake up in the dead of night, my stomach twisting in protest, reminding me that I barely ate at dinner. The house is eerily silent, the kind of silence that makes every sound feel louder, more intrusive.

I shove the blankets off and pull on a hoodie before making my way downstairs, my footsteps light against the wooden floor.

The dim glow of the oven clock casts faint shadows across the kitchen. I open the fridge, rummaging through its contents until I find some leftovers.

As I set them in the microwave, the soft hum fills the quiet, but it does nothing to drown out the thoughts circling in my mind.

Grayson never came back.

He disappeared after that phone call, and no one has seen him since.

A knot tightens in my stomach, but before I can dwell on it, the front door creaks open.

My body goes rigid.

I freeze, my mind jumping to the worst possibilities. My ears strain, tracking the sound of heavy footsteps moving through the house, growing closer.

My pulse kicks up, hammering against my ribs. Instinctively, I grab the nearest object...a spatula... because obviously, that's going to do something.

Then, a figure steps into the doorway.

Grayson.

Relief floods through me, until I actually look at him.

His clothes are smeared with blood. Dark crimson streaks his face, his hands, his shirt. He looks wrecked, like he's been through hell and barely crawled out.

The spatula clatters to the counter as I rush toward him, hunger long forgotten.

"What happened?" I whisper, my voice urgent, my heart lodged in my throat.

He doesn't answer.

He just stands there, unmoving, his eyes distant... cold. Like he's not even here, like his mind is still somewhere else entirely.

The detached, vacant look in his gaze sends a chill down my spine. My stomach churns.

I step closer, hesitating only for a second before reaching for his hands. His knuckles are raw and split, fresh blood staining his skin. I trace the wounds lightly, my touch barely there.

"What did you do?" I murmur, more to myself than him.

Grayson yanks his hands away, jaw tightening. "I'm fine."

The lie is obvious, it almost makes me laugh. Instead, I grab his wrist, gently but firmly, attempting to lead him toward the bathroom.

"Just stop." His voice is low, strained. He twists his wrist, loosening my grip with ease. My fingers slip, despite my best effort to keep hold of him.

"Just let me help you." I reach for his arm again, my voice softer this time, pleading.

He resists at first, his body tense, but then something in him gives. His shoulders drop slightly, his fight fading. He lets me guide him.

Inside the bathroom, I flick on the light, and my breath catches.

The full extent of his injuries is laid bare, blood trickling from a cut on his brow, his lip split, bruises already forming across his jaw. He looks like he's been in a war.

I fill the basin with warm water, grabbing a washcloth with slightly shaking hands. "Sit down." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

Grayson exhales sharply but lowers himself onto the edge of the bathtub, wincing as he moves.