Broken Hands

35. TDI (Durham)

Grayson slouched in the passenger seat, his fingers fidgeting inside his hoodie pocket as Damien steered the car with the precision of someone who always knew exactly where he was going. The air between them felt like a thick fog, suffocating. The rhythmic hum of the car's engine did little to drown out Grayson's growing anxiety.

Every so often, his gaze darted to the passing scenery, his throat closing as his mind spiraled. Apologizing to Judas was humiliating enough, but the thought of defying Damien's authority will wax worse. The man was relentless—and Grayson had learned not to push too far the hard way.

"Stop sulking," Damien said without looking at him, his tone sharp enough to cut. "You screwed up, and now you're going to fix it."

Grayson's fingers curled into tight fists, his nails digging into his palms. He didn't answer, keeping his head down and pretending not to hear. But the words burned, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

When they arrived at Judas' house, Grayson couldn't help but stare. The mansion was absurdly extravagant—gleaming glass windows, manicured hedges that looked like they were trimmed daily, and a driveway littered with luxury cars that sparkled under the golden sunlight. It screamed money and privilege, a lifestyle Grayson had but didn't belong to.

Damien parked the car with the same controlled energy he brought to everything and stepped out without waiting for Grayson. "Let's go," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Dragging his feet, Grayson followed, each step heavier than the last. The massive front door creaked open, revealing Judas, who froze at the sight of him, there were fading bruises on his face, the ones Grayson had inflicted. The pale, startled expression on Judas' face almost made Grayson smirk, but Damien's presence snuffed out the flicker of satisfaction.

Judas' parents emerged moments later, their polished appearances a perfect match for their lavish surroundings. His mother, poised in an elegant navy dress, sized up Grayson with thinly veiled disdain, while his father, all business in a tailored suit, greeted Damien with a handshake that reeked of mutual respect.

"Mr. Smith," Judas' father said warmly, his voice carrying a practiced politeness. "A pleasure as always."

"Likewise," Damien replied, his tone cool but polite. Then he turned to Grayson, the steel in his gaze unmistakable. "Grayson has something to say."

All eyes turned to him, and Grayson's throat went dry. His hands twitched in his hoodie pocket as he hesitated, every muscle in his body screaming for him to walk away. But Damien's presence rooted him in place, the silent threat in his expression impossible to ignore.

Grayson cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly. "I'd like to apologize... for my behavior toward Judas," he said stiffly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He glanced at Judas, his expression tight. "I'm sorry for hitting you. I slipped." he added smugly, little bitch.

When he noticed the burning stare Damien gave him a sighed dramatically, "It won't happen again." He added, "count yourself lucky I was expelled, it was far from over." Of course he wouldn't voice that.

Judas nodded quickly, his discomfort as obvious as the tension in the room. "It's fine," he muttered, though his voice was barely audible.

Damien and Judas' parents exchanged a few more pleasantries, none of which Grayson bothered to process. He was too busy staring at the floor, heat crawling up his neck. The whole encounter felt like a punishment worse than the belt.

Finally, Damien gave a curt nod. "Let's go."

Relief washed over Grayson as they stepped back outside. The ordeal was over—at least, that part of it. But as the car pulled out of Judas' driveway Damien steered to a different road than home, and they were in silence for unforgiving minutes till the towering silhouette of The Durham Institute came into view, Grayson's stomach churned again. It as like in the logo in the form he filled.