Broken Hands

79. Facing Damien

The day had stretched on endlessly, a painful crawl that left Grayson wishing he could disappear. He was thankful he didn't have to show up at school. He couldn't have dealt with the stares, the questions, or the routine of it all. Instead, he spent the afternoon divided between two places—the vet, where Stray remained under observation, and the hospital, where Aiden's condition teetered on unstable.

Grayson felt like a thread pulled too tight, ready to snap. His mind jumped constantly, guilt tearing at him from every angle. Stray, hurt because of his absence. Aiden, lying pale and unconscious in a hospital bed. And then there was Damien, waiting for him, judgment no doubt ready to rain down.

Now, he was seated on the couch, his cousins beside him. Julian sat close, his expression subdued, while Russell leaned back, his arms crossed, the tension visible in his posture. Across from them, Damien and Alex occupied the chairs. Alex sat with his hands clasped, his face a mask of calm, though his eyes held a flicker of disappointment. Damien, however, was the embodiment of scrutiny—his sharp gaze boring into Grayson like a drill, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

Grayson could feel the weight of the room pressing down on him. It was more like a courtroom than a family meeting, and he was undeniably on trial.

Damien finally cleared his throat, breaking the silence like glass shattering. "Yesterday, as we all know—except for Grayson," he began, his gaze locking on Grayson, sharp and unforgiving, "This home was infiltrated. A robbery. The criminals came in through the back door, which was left unlocked in the middle of the night. The last time I checked, that door was secure."

Grayson flinched at the words, his stomach twisting. He had known this was coming, but hearing it spelled out was worse.

Damien continued, his tone firm and unyielding, "We're lucky to have gotten out of it with no loss of lives. But it was close. Too close."

Grayson's eyes dropped to Damien's hands, one of which was wrapped in bandages across his palm. Russell had mentioned that one of the robbers had managed to pull a knife on Damien during the scuffle, narrowly missing vital harm. Grayson's heart sank. Damien was hurt because of his mistake, the thought repeated like a curse.

"And we were all worried," Damien added, his tone growing sharper, "when we couldn't find Grayson. We were just about to leave with the police when he strolled in, looking like he had more important things to do in the middle of the night."

Grayson clasped his hands together, pressing them tightly as Damien's words cut into him.

"Mind explaining where you were, Grayson?" Damien demanded.

Grayson hesitated, feeling every set of eyes in the room fixed on him. He swallowed hard, his voice low. "I had to help a friend. He called me—he was in trouble. I had to go get him."

Damien's brows furrowed, his tone shifting to that dangerous edge that Grayson hated. "So you left in the middle of the night, endangering your life, to go play hero because you think you're invincible? You could've run straight into those robbers and get hurt—or worse!"

Grayson winced but didn't argue. He knew Damien was right. "He needed my help," he said, his voice small, "He could have been dead."

Damien's frown deepened. "If he was in such dire trouble, why not get me or Alex? What kind of trouble was he in that required you to risk everything?"

Grayson swallowed, feeling trapped. He had no choice but to explain, even if it made things worse. "He was stabbed," he admitted.

Damien's eyes narrowed. "And instead of calling for emergency services, he called you? That doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't he call for real help?"