Broken Hands

138. The Psychiatrist

The conversation with Damien barely settled in Grayson's chest—it just sat there, heavy, unresolved. Damien hadn't said much, and that silence bugged him. They weren't past it. He knew that. But at least he had told him. At least he had looked Damien in the eyes and faced the fear. If Damien had been furious, he would have said something then and there. But he hadn't. He wasn't mad. At least, not visibly.

Grayson had wanted more than just silence. He had wanted Damien to yell, to vent, to lash out in frustration. Maybe then, he would have felt something close to relief. Maybe then, he would have felt like he got what he deserved for all of this.

The psychiatrist sat across from Grayson, a leather-bound notebook resting on his knee, pen poised between his fingers. His expression was composed, practiced—calm, as it should be.

Grayson met his eyes briefly before looking past him, to the clock ticking steadily on the wall. He was just ready to get this over with. Ready to face whatever came next. Even if deep down, all he really wanted was to be left alone.

He hadn't even turned his phone on yet. Somehow, he knew that when he did, there would be messages waiting—unknown numbers, words that would drag him right back into the cage he had barely crawled out of.

"Grayson, how are you feeling today?"

The man's voice was smooth, carrying a careful, professional warmth. His blue eyes glimmered with what was meant to be kindness.

"Good."

Grayson's response was immediate, empty.

The psychiatrist gave a slight nod. "How do you feel about missing a rib? You must be in pain."

Grayson barely blinked. "The pain is bearable. I'm on painkillers."

The psychiatrist studied him. "You're very optimistic. That's a good thing."

Grayson nodded once, but he knew deep down that it wasn't optimism, he was used to the reality of it, as long as he was bringing he had to keep taking the hits and living by it, his body won't give up, a strength he really hated.

"You were recently abducted," the psychiatrist continued, his tone light, almost delicate. "During that time, you weren't treated gently. You don't have to go into details if you don't want to. If you need space, water—if you don't feel comfortable talking about it, that's fine."

Grayson nodded but said nothing.

The man shifted slightly. "Can you tell me about it?"

Grayson met his gaze then, steady, unblinking. "Yeah."

"Go ahead. Take your time."

Grayson didn't acknowledge that.

"There's not much to say," he began, his tone eerily neutral. "I got abducted. Wasn't treated kindly—not that it was my first time." He exhaled slowly, rubbing his fingers together, feeling the stiffness in his knuckles. "My cousin got knocked over by a car, almost died. History repeated itself. People were murdered, their blood stained my skin, gunfire everywhere, three different times, how I survived I don't know I just did. I was drugged. Did me some good, I had to move on with broken ribs, got roughened up sometimes but nothing too terrible." He let his head tilt slightly, as if considering something far away.

His voice never wavered. There was no rise, no fall. Just words, like he was reading off a grocery list.

The psychiatrist wrote something down.

"The injuries—were they a means of torture?"

Grayson rubbed his thumb against his palm, slow and absent. "No. Got most of it from a fight. Then some for pissing some people off."