Broken Hands

41. Rough edge

Damien had always been a man of order. He thrived on discipline and clarity, steering the household with firm hands and a straightforward approach. To him, most people's opinions were their just perspectives of life—sometimes misguided perspectives from those who lacked the backbone to see the world as it was. Still, beneath his rigid demeanor lay a genuine concern for his nephew. Grayson's problems were equally his, and he needed to resolve them fast.

Grayson's upbringing had been a stark contrast to the care and structure provided to his cousins. Charlie's twisted influence had shaped Grayson in ways that Damien feared would be nearly impossible to undo. The anger, the defiance, and the recklessness—it was the residue of a poisoned past. Damien hated that Charlie's legacy had seeped into his nephew's core.

At first, Damien had tried to rationalize the behavior. Sneaking out? Typical teenage rebellion. Breaking curfew? Annoying, but manageable. The motorcycle, the fake ID, and the dangerous crowd, like Aiden—those had been red flags, yet Damien had chosen to approach them with a measured hand. Grayson was lost, after all, and needed guidance, not condemnation. But the drugs, the tattoo, and the blatant disregard for rules? These were cracks too deep to ignore and needed immediate fixing.

Damien's patience had reached its limit when the school called. Drugs on school grounds. Hawthorne hadn't minced words, and the incident painted a picture Damien had tried desperately to deny. Grayson wasn't just rebellious—he was turning, heading down a path Damien had seen before. A path Charlie had paved, a path Damien refused to let his nephew follow.

If Grayson wanted to blame his past, fine. But Damien wasn't about to let that past define him. It was time for action, harsh if necessary, to set the boy straight. Alex might think he was overbearing, but Damien didn't care. Better to be the villain in Grayson's story if it meant saving him from himself.

Damien adjusted his watch with precision, each tick a reminder of the mounting tension that had simmered since the call from Hawthorne. The suspension had been inevitable, but the sheer weight of disappointment in Grayson's actions felt like a blow to Damien's own principles. He had spent years maintaining order, ensuring that values were instilled, and now this? A nephew who seemed determined to pull everything down without giving it a second thought. Damien would not make the mistake his father made, the mistake that led to them losing one of theirs. It was time for action—firm, uncompromising action.

As he ascended the stairs, the silence engulfed him. He traced his steps to Grayson's door, hesitating for a moment. He could hear the faint scratching of a pen against paper. Damien opened the door without knocking, his presence filling the room like a tidal wave.

Grayson sat hunched at his desk, his hoodie drawn over his head like a shield. His hands moved steadily across a notebook, his face hidden. The room, however, was a battlefield of disarray—clothes strewn across the bed, papers scattered on the floor, and a half-empty glass teetering on the edge of the desk.

Damien's eyes swept the chaos. And it hit his nerves. "Grayson," he said, his tone sharp, measured, but not without a thread of concern.

Grayson stopped mid-motion, the pen hovering above the page. He didn't turn, didn't speak, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing for an inevitable storm.

Damien rest his hand on the knob holding the door open. "I'm heading out to pick up your cousins. While I'm gone, I expect this room to be spotless. And we're scheduling an appointment to have that tattoo removed. I don't care if it hurts." He expressed ignoring how his voice came out cold.

Grayson's response came quietly, barely above a whisper. "Okay." He still didn't look up, his gaze fixed on his notebook.

The lack of resistance caught Damien off guard. He stood there for a moment, studying his nephew. There was no fire, no indignation, just a quiet compliance that felt... off. He turned abruptly and walked out, but stopped at the top of the stairs. Something gnawed at him—a nagging unease he couldn't shake.