Broken Hands

86. Her agenda

Grayson's feet pounded against the worn steps as he climbed the hill, his breath catching in his throat when he spotted her—Stray. Her sleek black fur glistened under the sunlight, her figure perched perfectly at the top. His heart felt like it stopped, and then it raced faster than it had in days.

"Stray!" he called, his voice trembling. He surged forward, taking the steps two at a time, his legs burning with every push. He stumbled, his palms scraping against the stone steps, but he didn't care. Stray was there, waiting for him, and all he wanted was to scoop her up and take her home.

When he reached her, his knees nearly buckled. He fell to the ground, wrapping his arms around her. She barked excitedly, licking his face with the same fervor she always had, her tail wagging furiously. Grayson let out a bitter laugh, the sound hitching as tears stung his eyes.

"There you are," he whispered, burying his face into her fur. "God, I thought you were gone forever." His voice cracked, the tears falling freely now. "I thought it was over. Let's go home, Stray. I swear it'll be different this time. I'll be better, I promise."

Stray barked again, wagging her tail harder as if to say she believed him. Grayson stood, hands rest on Stray, it felt familiar and reassuring.

But then Stray growled, low and menacing. Grayson turned, his stomach dropping as he saw a man in a mask standing a few feet away, a gun pointed directly at him.

Grayson stepped back instinctively, his grip on Stray's collar tightening. "Stay back," he muttered, his voice shaking.

Stray wriggled in his arms, barking furiously. "No, Stray, don't—" Grayson tried to hold her, but she broke free, lunging at the masked man. Her teeth sank into his arm, and the man screamed in fury.

Grayson moved forward to help, but before he could, another masked man yanked him back by his hair. The sudden pain made him gasp, and he struggled, his heart hammering in his chest.

"STRAY!" he shouted as she turned her focus to the second man, rushing toward him with her bloodied jaw. The man aimed his gun, and Grayson's breath caught.

"No, no, no!"

The gun fired once. Twice. A third time.

Stray fell.

"STRAY!" Grayson's scream tore through his throat, raw and agonizing—

Grayson jerked awake, his body drenched in sweat. His chest rose and fell heavily, his hands trembling uncontrollably. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse and raw. His heart pounded in his chest, still caught in the nightmare's grip as if he were back on that hill, desperate and helpless to save her.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cold floor. Sitting on the edge, he ran his fingers through his damp hair, trying to steady his breathing. The room was quiet, but his mind was loud, a cacophony of grief, guilt, and anger that refused to let him rest.

Forcing himself to his feet, Grayson shuffled to the bathroom. The soft click of the light switch illuminated the small space, harsh and sterile compared to the swirling darkness of his thoughts. He turned on the faucet, letting the cold water pool in his hands before splashing it over his face. The shock of it jolted him back to reality, grounding him momentarily, though the ache in his chest refused to subside.

Switching off the light, Grayson stepped out into the dark hallway. The house was silent. He padded softly to Julian's room, the creak of the floorboards beneath him breaking the stillness.

Peering inside, he saw Julian sprawled across his bed, one arm dangling off the side, his soft snores filling the air. The sight should've been comforting, but it only deepened the hollow ache in Grayson's chest. Stray should've been there, curled up at the foot of the bed, her protective presence a constant reassurance.