Broken Hands

82. Breaking

Grayson sat motionless on the damp grass, the cool night air wrapping around him like a cold embrace. His gaze was locked on the endless expanse of the dark sky above, searching desperately for a glimpse of something—anything—that could give him peace. But all he saw were scattered stars, distant and indifferent to his pain.

He hadn't moved in hours, his body aching from sitting hunched on the ground. The memory of Stray played over and over in his mind like a cruel movie reel. He could see her little form on the cobbled streets of Italy, her fur matted and her ribs visible under her thin frame. He could still hear Damien's stern voice saying, "We can't take in every stray we see," and how that same voice had softened when Grayson refused to leave the puppy behind.

Damien had let him keep her. He had promised to take responsibility, to care for her. And he did. For six chaotic months, he had dealt with her puppy energy, her training sessions, her messes—and he loved every second of it. She became his shadow, his comfort, and his confidant. She wasn't just a dog; she was everything he couldn't find in the world—unconditional love, loyalty, and safety.

Now she was gone.

Stray was gone.

The thought echoed in his mind, relentless and cruel. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. How could this happen? How could he have been so careless? He had left the back door open. He caused it.

His chest ached with the weight of guilt and grief, a living pain that seeped into his very bones. He could barely move; every breath felt like a battle. He wanted to scream, to cry, to let out the anguish clawing at his insides, but his body refused to cooperate. His throat burned, his eyes stung, but he couldn't bring himself to let the tears fall.

Looking back at the sky, he squinted as the clouds seemed to shift and swirl, forming shapes in the dim moonlight. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw her. The curve of her fur, the tilt of her ears—it looked like Stray. His breath caught in his throat, and he had to look away. It was too much. The weight of the loss was too heavy, and his heart screamed in protest.

Humans didn't deserve dogs. Too innocent, too kind for this cruel world.

They were too good, too loyal. They never thought of themselves, always putting their humans first. He thought of her growling at the intruders, her bark waking Julian and Russell, her bravery costing her life.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse.

He buried his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking as he silently battled the storm inside him. The tears burned as they fell, hot stubborn trails carving paths down his cheeks. He hated himself for crying but hated even more that she was gone. No more cuddles, no more sloppy licks, no more of her warm presence beside him.

A sound broke through his spiral of thoughts—the faint rumble of a car pulling over. Grayson didn't bother looking up. He didn't care. Let it be kidnappers, Hera, Damien, Alex, or anyone else; they could yell, scold, and drag him anyway if they wanted. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

The car door shut softly, followed by deliberate footsteps crunching over the grass. Grayson heard them grow closer, stopping just a few feet away. The familiar scent of cologne filled the air, a sharp contrast to the earthy smell of the night. Grayson didn't need to look up to know who it was.

Damien.

The man crouched beside him, silent for a moment. Grayson could feel Damien's presence—steady, grounding, and impossibly heavy in this fragile moment.

"You've been out here a long time," Damien said finally, his tone low but not unkind.

Grayson didn't respond. He couldn't trust his voice.