Broken Hands

38. Horrible Day

Stray's warm, wet tongue dragged across Grayson's face, rousing him from a restless sleep. He groaned, shoving the blanket off and sitting up slowly, the weight of the morning already pressing on him. This was it-the dreaded first day at Durham, and on the first Monday of January no less. His body protested as he stretched, shoulders stiff from a night of tossing and turning.

Christmas and New Year's had been miserable, the dullest he'd ever experienced. Alex hadn't been home-he'd been stuck on an extended business trip, fighting to keep a client out of prison. Russell and Julian were halfway across the world, enjoying their vacation. Grayson had been left alone in an eerily quiet house.

Damien, ever pragmatic, had suggested Grayson spend the holidays at "the castle." But the thought of facing his grandfather made Grayson's stomach flip, so he'd declined. Instead, he'd asked if he could visit some friends. Predictably, Damien refused. Left with no options, Grayson had locked himself in his room, not wanting to have any interactions with his uncle.

No celebration. No company. Just him, Stray, and the oppressive silence of the house. The only interruptions were a call from Rosa, which he had answered the best part of the day, and another from Russell, which he refused to respond to as soon as he heard Russell's voice resound through the fix.

New Year's Eve had offered a slight reprieve. He'd told Damien he wanted to go to church for the crossover service, and Damien, perhaps feeling charitable, had agreed. Sitting in the church's soft glow, surrounded by strangers but feeling oddly comforted, Grayson had managed to call a few friends through a borrowed phone. He reassured them he'd be back soon, once he "sorted his problems." The following day, he'd come home to a slightly less tense Damien and spent the evening with Stray, enjoying a quiet feast he'd ordered himself while reading an old folklore novel.

But even that small bit of solace couldn't mask how lifeless the house had felt. Without Julian's meticulous decorating or Alex's cheery persistence, the place seemed stripped of its soul. Grayson had yelled into the void of his room more than once, his frustration echoing in the emptiness. He swore he'd never have another Christmas or New year as terrible as this one.

Now, as the morning light crept through the blinds, Grayson dragged himself to the shower. The steaming water did little to shake off his lingering malaise, but he powered through, brushing his hair and slipping into his new uniform. The black trousers and white button-down shirt felt stiff, the black sweater vest with its white trim stifling along with the black tie. And the suit jacket? Overkill.

By the time he glanced in the mirror, he looked polished-like someone entirely unlike himself. He sighed, checking the time. 7:00 a.m. Already late, and he couldn't care less. Let them yell.

In the kitchen, he whipped up a quick breakfast-toast and eggs, washed down with milk. Stray padded alongside him into the living room, where Damien sat watching the news, looking infuriatingly calm.

"Morning, Uncle Damien," Grayson muttered, his tone more obligation than sincerity.

Damien glanced at the clock. "Do you realize you're an hour late?"

Grayson shrugged, grabbing another bite of toast. "You could've woken me earlier," he said, feigning nonchalance.

"You're old enough to take responsibility for yourself," Damien shot back, his tone sharp.

Grayson smirked faintly, mumbling under his breath, "This is how much responsibility I take."

"What was that?" Damien's eyes narrowed, his voice low and warning.

"Nothing," Grayson replied, swallowing his retort as he grabbed his bag and headed toward the door. Stray trailed by him loyally.

At the car, Damien handed Grayson his phone, its sleek surface catching the morning light. "This is for emergencies. Call or text me if you need to. But remember, no electronics on school grounds. You'll turn it in when you get there and pick it up when you leave."