Broken Hands

33. Who's to be blamed?

The study was a place of quiet dread for the boys. Damien's calm yet commanding presence turned the room into a court where justice was deliberate and unyielding. The soft song of the crickets outside was the only sound breaking the silence, amplifying the tension.

Julian winced slightly as Damien dabbed antiseptic on the cut on his arm, his expression molded in pain. Damien, however, was unreadable—his movements were precise, his face a mask of stoicism. Meanwhile, Russell and Grayson stood apart, their hostility simmering beneath the surface, their postures stiff and their gazes carefully avoiding each other. As anger and adrenaline from the fight still run through their veins.

When Damien finished bandaging Julian, he finally looked up, his dark eyes pinning both boys in place. "What happened?" he asked, his tone calm but carrying an edge that demanded answers.

Neither boy answered. Russell shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tight, while Grayson clenched his fists at his sides, his shoulders squared defensively. Neither of them wanted to go first.

"Well?" Damien's gaze flicked between them, his patience clearly thinning.

When silence persisted, Damien's tone turned sharper. "Get me the belt, Julian."

Julian froze, his wide eyes darting toward Damien. "Sir?" he stammered, as if hoping he'd misheard.

"The black one on my desk," Damien said firmly, his stare daring Julian to hesitate.

Reluctantly, Julian got up, his steps slow and heavy as he disappeared through the door. Both Russell and Grayson tensed visibly, their anger momentarily eclipsed by apprehension. Russell rubbed the back of his neck, while Grayson's jaw worked as he bit back whatever retort simmered on his tongue.

When Julian returned, the thick leather belt in his trembling hands, Damien took it without a word and stood. The sound of the chair rolling back punctuated the thick tension in the air.

"Julian, what happened? I asked you three to make dinner, not to kill each other. Why are you all bleeding?" His glare swept over the trio, stopping on Julian, who looked as though he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

Julian bit his lip, shifting uncomfortably under Damien's intense gaze. He knew this was coming. Words clung to the back of his throat, refusing to come out. If he said too much, it could mean harsher punishment for one of them. He hesitated, trying to balance the truth and the risk of betrayal.

"Julian," Damien said, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. "I don't have all night. You're about to go first if you don't speak up."

Grayson tensed, his jaw locking, while Russell stared straight ahead, stoic but stiff. Neither wanted Julian dragged into this.

Julian swallowed, "I... I don't know," Julian finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Guilt flickered in his eyes as he continued, "We settled for salad, but... Grayson was a little clumsy, and I got hurt. Then they started arguing, and it... escalated."

Damien's eyes narrowed. "Who threw the first hit?"

Julian hesitated again, the guilt of withholding the truth written plainly on his face. "I... I don't know," he lied, his voice breaking slightly.

Damien studied him for a long moment before nodding curtly. "Fine." His gaze shifted to Russell. "Bend over."

Russell squared his shoulders and stepped forward, his face betraying no fear, only resignation. He bent over, gripping the edge of the desk. The first lash of the belt cracked through the room like a thunderclap, making Julian flinch. Russell, however, remained stoic until the third strike, when a low groan escaped him.