hello friends!
welcome to chapter two :)
this chapter is pretty packed! I loved writing angry xan XD
this is where we start getting glimpses of grayson's very unfortunate childhood...it really is quite traumatic, poor kid. I'll be trying to post flashbacks at least once per chapter but this one has two so some might have none. this is to try and gain an insight as to why grayson is the way he is in TIG.
TRIGGER WARNING: CHILD ABUSE
(physical and emotional, nothing sexual)
I hope y'all love this chapter!
I'm working on posting on my BH6 fics :) I'm almost done with a chapter of Shurikens so if anyone is over there reading that you're welcome :)
thank you friends! reviews would be GREATLY appreciated!
peace out!
The next day, Nash was transferred back to Hawthorne House, sentenced to a week in the medical wing on oxygen and painkillers. Grayson and Xander sat in chairs by his bed, awaiting Jameson's arrival.
"Are y'all okay?" Nash asked, glancing at his brothers. His voice was still weak, but stronger and much less raspy than it had been yesterday.
"I'm great!" Xan replied, breaking out into a wide grin. "I feel awesome! And I'm totally ready to yell at Jamie in person! His Do Not Disturb setting was on!"
Nash smiled, looking questioningly at Gray, who gave him a faint smile in return. "I suppose I'm alright. But there are several terribly annoying drawbacks to having a fractured talus."
"Presumably," Xan agreed. "What kind of drawbacks? Besides, you know, the pain and all that?"
"I'm not allowed to exercise," Gray sighed. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do if I can't exercise. My physique will be doomed. And do not get me started on the showering situation. It's terribly inconvenient."
Xan clapped Gray on the shoulder. "Guess you'll just have to give up basic hygiene!"
Gray shuddered. "Heaven forbid. At least I don't have a cast. It sounds like absolute torture."
"It is!" Xan said cheerfully. Gray remembered him breaking his metatarsals when he was seven—Xan had been in a cast for several weeks, but he didn't complain, so it couldn't have been all that torturous.
"How are you doing, Nash?" Gray asked quietly, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Will the pneumothorax heal quickly?"
Nash nodded. "Couple weeks at most. Ribs will take longer—five or six weeks. But I'll be fine, Gray, y'all don't need to worry."
The door to the medical wing opened, and Jameson walked in, sunglasses still on and smiling broadly. He looked so relaxed, so unconcerned, that Gray felt a stab of annoyance. There had been a jet crash, for heaven's sake, and his little brother didn't seem to realize how serious it was.
Gray stood, limping over to stand in front of Jamie with as much dignity as he could muster. He drew himself up to his full height of five foot eight, fully aware of the three inches between himself and Jamie, and punched his younger brother in the face.
Not as hard as he could, of course. If Gray had punched with all his strength, Jamie's zygomatic would have been broken. Even so, Jameson stumbled backward, his hand flying to his cheek.
He offered Gray a weak smile. "I deserved that."
"Yes, you did!" Xander burst out. "I sent you all three of our 911s and you just ignored them!"
"Only for twenty minutes—"
"Twenty minutes where I was praying for help and Gray was passed out in the ocean and Nash was dying on the beach!"
Xan's eyes were incredibly wide, sparkling with unshed tears under the fluorescent lights. Jameson seemed taken aback, his smile fading. "Look, Xan, I'm sorry, but I thought you were overreacting."
"Would I send you three 911s if I was overreacting?" Xan snapped. "I mean, I get that you couldn't come right away, since Tahiti is ten hours away and all, but you didn't even look at your phone!"
"I thought you guys could handle it!" Jamie fired back. "And it all turned out fine, didn't it? Everyone made it!"
"Jamie, the point is not what the outcome was," Gray said calmly. "We know you couldn't have arrived in time to help us after the crash. What Xan is trying to tell you is the fact that we told you to be responsible and keep your phone on—and you did not. While we understand not having your device out every moment of the day, Xander reports that your Do Not Disturb setting was on. That points to you having deliberately turned your phone off."
"Maybe I had reasons!" Jameson spit. "Your flight was almost done!"
"What were the reasons?" Xander challenged. "Your alone time with Avery?"
Jamie's face dropped into a murderous expression, and he started toward Xan, but the younger Hawthorne's fist shot out, colliding with his brother's arm.
Jamie didn't even seem to feel it, but Xan collapsed backward into his chair, clutching his braced wrist. "Ow!"
"Xan," Gray sighed. "You cannot use your injured hand to punch people, no matter how much they deserve it."
"I know that!" Xan wailed, his lip trembling as he curled into a ball. "Now it really hurts!"
Gray arched an eyebrow at Jameson, silently asking, What are you going to do about this?
Jamie stared at the floor. "Xan, I'm sorry I ignored you guys, okay? I was kind of in the middle of something. I promise I got the soonest flight out that I could."
Xander sniffed. "Okay, fine. I forgive you. But I'm gonna have to hear the reasons."
Jamie's smile was nervous, and Gray's stomach clenched. Jamie was never nervous, not in any way, shape, or form. It had to be incredibly serious if Jameson Hawthorne was nervous.
"I think that's something I should tell you guys in private," Jamie mumbled. "To minimize the, um, negative feedback."
His normal smile returned, and Jameson clapped his hands together. "Who wants to go first?"
Five minutes later, the two of them were barricaded in Grayson's room, with Gray on one end of the bed—the pillow end—and Jameson on the other. The door was locked, and Jamie seemed apprehensive, his eyes darting around the room as if he expected Xander to jump out.
"What happened?" Gray asked, locking his gaze onto Jameson's. "Is Avery alright? Are you alright? Tell me you didn't get mixed up in some sort of Ponzi scheme."
"No, it's nothing like that," Jamie replied. "Actually, it might be worse in the sense that it will complicate our lives in unforeseen ways."
Gray simply looked at him calmly, but internally, he was a little worried. He did not want an even more complicated life.
"Um," Jamie started. "So, while we were in Tahiti, Avery and I did some…things. Which I'm sure you understand."
Gray rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know. Go on."
"And one of those…things…may or may not have been at exactly the wrong time," Jameson mumbled.
Gray really didn't like where this was going.
Jamie swallowed hard. "And we may or may not have been slightly drunk. And, um, we may or may not have forgotten to use…you know, protection."
"You did not," Gray said abruptly. "Jameson Winchester Hawthorne, you did not."
Jameson's reply to that was "How would you feel about being an uncle?"
"No" was all Gray said. "For heaven's sake, Jamie, why?!"
"It was—well, it was sort of an accident!" Jamie defended. "And it was a team effort!"
Gray stood up, an ache starting to throb in his temples. "We can't withstand any more media attention, Jamie! This will be all over the news in a heartbeat, and what are we going to do then?"
"We could just keep Avery here," Jameson suggested timidly.
"No, we couldn't! She has to go out sometimes, and then we have perhaps three or four months until people start to notice! I guarantee you that this is not going to be a secret for long!"
Gray stopped in front of the window, pressing his forehead to the cool, misty glass. "And what are we going to do with the—you know, the baby?"
"We're not putting them up for adoption, if that's what you think," Jamie replied. "We're gonna raise them here, in Hawthorne House. Seriously, Gray, I know you'll like them."
"I didn't say I wouldn't like them. I'm worried about how we are going to conceal this from the world—not because I don't want to acknowledge it, but because I honestly would prefer that the paparazzi not swarm our house."
"We'll figure something out," Jamie said determinedly. "Besides, like you said, we've got three or four months before people start to notice. We just can't let it leak out."
"We'll have to minimize public appearances as much as possible," Gray mused, the gears of his mind turning rapidly. "Any camera appearances will have to be chest up."
"You're actually taking this pretty well," Jameson observed. "I was afraid you'd hit me."
"I still haven't ruled it out," Gray said, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Jameson stood up, clapping a hand on Gray's shoulder. "Thanks, Gray. You'll be an awesome uncle."
"And you'll be a passable father. I suppose. If you don't feed the baby with whiskey."
Jamie smiled and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Grayson flopped onto his bed—which was undignified, but no one was here to see him. He seemed to have spent the last day and a half resting, which he supposed was normal with a concussion, but all he really wanted to do was go out to the pool and swim until all his emotions were out of his system. Unfortunately, that was out of the question for several weeks until his ankle had healed properly. Preposterous.
Sleep crept up on Grayson's overstimulated mind, and he struggled to stay awake, but it was futile. His bed was far too soft and inviting, and he gave in to the temptation of the nap.
And the past immediately leapt up to devour him.
ten years ago
Grayson's small hands trembled, his palms starting to sweat. He stared at the rug on the floor of the old man's study, suddenly very interested in its plush weave.
"Your haiku, Grayson," Tobias Hawthorne said again, and the words seemed to echo through his grandson's ears, bouncing around in his skull.
He didn't want to read the haiku. It wasn't perfect and it probably would never be—the old man might even take it as a challenge. Grayson's throat was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
Pulling the folded scrap of paper out of his pocket, Grayson slowly unfolded it, fully aware of his grandfather's eyes on him, blazing with a barely contained fire.
He started to speak, but his throat seemed to close up and he swallowed, trying to force the words out.
Finally, they came, but not in the way Grayson wanted them to. His voice was small and trembling, terrified.
"A son exalted
But his spirit is broken
Perfect forever."
He did not look up. He didn't want to see the old man's face. His disappointed, hard-lined face, the face that said to Grayson over and over and over again that he'd failed.
"A remarkable effort," came Tobias Hawthorne's voice. "But you fell short of my expectations—again, Grayson. That makes this the third year in a row."
Nine. He was nine. And he was expected to be perfect.
"I tried my best," Grayson mumbled. "Really, Grandfather, I did. I promise."
"Grayson," the old man said softly, silkily. "It is quite obvious that you are the subject of your own haiku. This is unacceptable. Your family comes first, not yourself—you know that."
Grayson nodded, still staring at the floor. "I—I just—you said to put feeling into it."
"Not your feelings, Grayson. Emotion has no place in my heir apparent. You are to protect our family and grow the fortune. Nothing else. Do you understand?"
He looked up.
"What if I want to have feelings?"
Tobias Hawthorne's face hardened. "No matter how much you want to have them, Grayson, you don't. You can't allow them to affect your choices. You must be governed by what is best for your family."
He stared Grayson in the eyes, his gaze on fire. "You have let your feelings get in the way of progress. This is why you keep failing, Grayson. This is why you have fallen so far short of your potential year after year. This is why you will never be enough."
The words seemed to strike Grayson in the heart, and he backed away, his chest heaving. His grandfather's eyes locked on his, pale orbs of ice.
"Never?" Grayson whispered.
The old man nodded. "Never."
Grayson turned, shaking, and he ran. His grandfather shouted after him, but he didn't stop, instead bursting through the door of the study and flying down the marble stairs. He slipped near the bottom, hitting his elbow on the railing—after all, he was only wearing socks—but Grayson scrambled back up and turned the corner, sprinting out the back door and down the steps onto the lawn. The moisture of the rain-soaked grass seeped into his socks, but he didn't care. He just kept running.
The tree house came into view, and Grayson started to climb, leaping onto the twisted trunk and using his momentum to carry him upwards. But the bark was slick with rain, and Grayson lost his grip, letting out a gasp as the wood scraped his palms and knees.
He crashed back down onto the grass, the breath driven out of his lungs, but he stumbled upright and groped for the ladder.
One side of his shirt soaked, his hands bleeding, Grayson pulled himself into the tree house and ripped off his wet socks, throwing them into the corner. Then he sank down against the far wall, pulling his scraped knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.
Then the tears came, and Grayson tried to hold them back, but it was no use. He usually tried not to cry, but he was alone, and there was no point in holding it in.
He was a failure. He'd never be enough.
Those words cut deeper than anything Grayson had ever felt. They crushed him, seemed to rip his rapidly beating heart out. He would never be perfect, never be enough for anyone.
He was alone.
"Gray?"
Scratch that.
Grayson lifted his tearstained face to see Nash silhouetted against the stormy sky, an expression of concern etched on his face.
"What did he say?" Nash asked, stepping into the tree house.
"He said I was a failure," Gray whispered. "And that I couldn't have feelings. And—and that I'd never be enough." His lip trembled, and more tears threatened to fall.
Nash knelt down in front of Gray and beckoned to him, and the nine-year-old couldn't stop himself. He flung himself into Nash's arms, sobbing into his older brother's chest. Nash's grip was strong and secure, with one arm wrapping around Gray's back and the other hand holding his head to his brother's pectorals. Gray could hear the beating of Nash's heart, a penetrating, comforting sound.
"Don't listen to him," Nash said fiercely. "It don't matter what he thinks. It only matters what you think of yourself, Gray, and you are enough. I promise you that. There is nothing you can't do."
His fingers ran through Gray's wet hair, soothing his little brother until his sobs died away.
"I love you, kiddo," Nash whispered. "Okay?"
"Okay," Gray mumbled, and a warmth spread through his chest as they sat there, listening to the pounding of the rain.
The rain was what woke Grayson up. It was storming even harder, and a low rumble of thunder rolled through Hawthorne House as Grayson rolled over, glancing blearily at the alarm clock.
2:37 a.m. Wonderful—he'd slept for over ten hours. Normally, Grayson could get by on six, but he was secretly fond of naps. Ten hours was, to be honest, a relief.
He got out of bed and changed into his silk monogrammed pajamas, then brushed his teeth—Grayson very much disliked the taste of morning breath, or in this case, 2 a.m. breath.
Grayson's temples still ached slightly, so he took a capsule of ibuprofen and went back to bed, curling into the fetal position under the covers.
He wasn't sure why he slept like that. He'd looked it up once, and the Internet alleged that sleeping in the fetal position indicated "shyness and sensitivity."
Grayson Hawthorne, shy? No. But sensitive? More than he'd like to admit.
The rain pounded on the roof, a staccato backdrop to the darkness. Grayson pulled the covers tighter around his shoulders and tried not to think about the old man, who'd been appearing in his dreams a lot more often lately. He wasn't sure why—Grayson had always focused as much as he could on the future, trying not to let the past affect him.
But sometimes it was hard. Sometimes it felt like, even though he was gone, Tobias Hawthorne was still pulling the strings of Grayson's life, still trying to force him to be perfect.
That was a lie, Grayson realized.
The only person forcing him to be perfect now was himself.
Morning came, but Grayson somehow didn't notice it. As soon as the sun hit his face—through an unfortunate gap in the curtains—he rolled over and yanked the covers higher, shielding his face from the warm golden light.
He made it two more hours before there was a loud pounding on the door. Xander.
"Gray! Come out!"
"No," he groaned, pulling his pillow over his ears. "Go away, Xan."
"But Gray! It's really important!"
"Can it wait?"
"Not if you want donuts!"
Grayson opened his eyes. Donuts did sound rather appealing.
He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pushing himself up—and his ankle gave out. Grayson hissed in pain, sinking back down and retrieving his brace from the nightstand. Stupid. He had to remember that brace.
Strapping the brace to his ankle, Grayson stood up again, limping over to the door and opening it to find Xander standing outside, a box of donuts clutched in his hands.
"You've got serious bed head," Xan mumbled around a bite of a maple donut. "And dark circles. Which I don't get, because you've been playing Sleeping Beauty for about eighteen hours now."
Gray reached up, running a hand through his hair. "What's the occasion?"
Xander hefted the box. "You mean why are we having donuts?"
He nodded, reaching out and selecting a sugar donut.
"I kinda just wanted donuts today," Xan shrugged. "And donuts are awesome. So I didn't see why not."
The second the donut touched his lips, Gray realized how hungry he was, and the pastry was soon finished off. Next up was chocolate—with sprinkles. If the media ever got word that Gray's favorite donut was chocolate with sprinkles, they'd eat him alive.
"So," Xan said conspiratorially. "Whatcha wanna do today?"
"Sleep," he grumbled, taking another donut.
"And stress eat, apparently," Xan added, observing Gray's third donut. "You know this isn't gonna be good for the physique you keep going on about, right?"
Gray sighed. "Yes, I know. And I physically cannot exercise with a fractured talus. Naturally, the best option would be to simply not eat, but I feel like that would make it worse."
Xan nodded sagely. "Fear not! I will assist you in avoiding stress eating!"
"How do you plan to do that?" Gray asked dryly.
"Um," Xan mused. "I could hide all the junk food?"
"And eat it all yourself? No, Xan."
Xander shrugged. "I can't think of any other way to do it, except to watch you on the security cameras at all times and sound some kind of alarm if you touch junk food. But then I'd have to sit in the control room all day and that wouldn't be fun."
Gray sighed. "Forget it. I can exercise self-discipline—you don't have to concern yourself with it." He yawned, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair. "Now, what is the real reason you came to wake me up?"
Xander grinned sheepishly. "I was bored. And no one else is awake. And I wanted to talk about Jamie and Avery's baby! I always thought Nash would be a dad first."
"Given that he's engaged, I expect he will be soon," Gray replied. "What about the baby?"
"There's never been a baby in this house," Xan said wistfully. "I don't think I've ever held one—there just haven't been any around."
"Xan, there have been exactly four babies in this house. It was just your luck that you happened to be the fourth."
"Which is so not fair," Xan grumbled, then brightened. "But now we get to have a baby! Do you want it to be a boy or a girl? Personally, I want it to be a boy, but I'm pretty sure I'll love it no matter what it is. Are you excited to be an uncle? I am! Hey, do you think we'll have to—"
Gray put a finger to his younger brother's lips. "Xan. You talk too much. But yes, I am excited, and I really don't have a preference for the gender. As long as it doesn't spit up on my suit, that's fine."
"I'm gonna make it spit up on your suit," Xan decided, smiling evilly.
"How? By poisoning it?"
Xan shrugged. "I don't know. But it'd be fun if it spit up on your suit. Anyway, did you see those weird dark figures outside last night?"
Gray stiffened. "What dark figures?"
"The ones outside. They were just standing around on the lawn."
Xan's face was worried for a moment, but his smile quickly returned. "It was probably just a bunch of security guards or something. And you wouldn't have seen them, Gray—you were out cold the whole night. Don't worry about it! I'm sure it's nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go blow something up."
Xan scampered away, taking the box of donuts with him, which Grayson was glad for. He probably would have kept stress eating if they'd still been there—maybe not before Xander dropped that bombshell, but certainly after.
Dark figures, standing on the lawn of the maximum-security Hawthorne House?
That was clearly not nothing.
seven years ago
Dark, heavy clouds hung low over the towering cliff, and Grayson stared up at the top, shocked that Xander was really going to have to climb that high.
For the most part, the brothers Hawthorne had tried to choose skills to cultivate that weren't extremely difficult or dangerous. Like haikus. Haikus weren't dangerous. Painting wasn't dangerous. Taking care of baby Xan—Nash's skill ten years ago—wasn't dangerous, not really, anyway.
But rock climbing?
That was dangerous. And Xan had, of course, chosen it.
Grayson would have bet an inordinate amount of money that his grandfather was going to make Gray's baby brother climb without equipment. Which was perhaps the worst thing that could have happened—the cliff was fifty or sixty feet high, the handholds sparse. Xander had only practiced either with equipment or a much smaller rock face. Now he stood at the foot of the sheer cliff, a light rain misting his skin, barely concealed terror shining in his eyes.
"What do we do?" eleven-year-old Jameson whispered, tugging on Nash's flannel shirt. "If he falls?"
Nash's forehead was creased with worry. "I…I don't know, Jamie. If it looks like he's gonna fall, I'll go stand under him. But I don't want y'all tryin' to help—the old man might take it out on you. And I don't want either of you to get hurt, so if somethin' happens and he gets mad, I'm takin' the consequences, okay?"
Jamie and Gray both nodded, though Gray privately resolved to help Xan too if the need arose. Even though Nash hadn't trained in martial arts like his younger brothers had, the fact remained that, at eighteen, he was much stronger than Gray or Jamie. He could probably hold off the old man long enough for the two of them to help Xan.
"All right, Xander," Tobias Hawthorne said softly. "Begin. We will remain here until you reach the top of the cliff."
Xan swallowed, then nodded, reaching out and grabbing the first handhold. Gray held his breath as his little brother lifted himself a few feet off the ground, his jaw set stubbornly.
The kid was, admittedly, pretty good. He dug his fingers into cracks Gray could barely even see, and at times seemed to be clinging to sheer rock. Xan was doing well for the first third of the way up the cliff.
Then Xander's foot slipped. At first, it didn't worry Gray. The hands were the important part in rock climbing, Xan had told him. If your foot slipped, it wasn't too hard to get back up.
But then Xan's other foot lost its purchase, the rock slippery from the rain, and Gray winced sympathetically as his brother's knees scraped against the rock face. Xan's little fingers clenched against the rough stone, desperately trying to get his feet back into position.
"Don't fall," Gray heard Nash whisper, his body tensing as if ready to spring should Xander lose his grip further. "C'mon, Xan, don't fall…"
Xan fell.
The ten-year-old let out a squeal of terror as he plummeted, falling ten feet and bouncing off an outcropping before crashing to the sand in a heap. Xan lay still, his chest heaving frantically.
Gray and Nash lunged forward, prepared to bolt toward their little brother. But the old man's arm swung out, hitting Gray square in the solar plexus—so hard that the twelve-year-old lost his balance and fell over onto the sand, clutching his midsection and gasping for air.
Nash made it a little farther, but Tobias Hawthorne was fast. He caught his grandson by the wrist, holding Nash back. Still, Nash was younger and stronger, and he shook the old man off, striding toward Xan.
Jamie, who seemed to have unfrozen from where he stood, knelt down next to Gray, whispering, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Gray rasped, sitting up halfway. "We've got to help Xan."
"No," said the old man, and Gray looked up, ready to say something defensive, before realizing he was talking to Nash, who knelt beside Xan.
"No helping," Tobias Hawthorne hissed. "You know the rules—you are not allowed to take part in your brothers' skill tests, Nash."
"But he can't climb!" Nash said, outraged. "Look at his ankle—I'm pretty sure it's sprained."
"It's okay," Xan gasped. "I can keep trying. It's okay, Nash."
"Can't we at least treat him before he tries again?" Grayson asked, standing up with a wince. Jameson moved as if to assist him, but he waved his little brother away.
"Xander needs to do this on his own power," the old man told Grayson. "No one is allowed to help."
"He can't move, let alone climb," Grayson hissed. "How do you expect him to finish the test?"
"He's a Hawthorne," his grandfather replied. "Hawthornes find a way."
"The only way Xan's going to do this at all is if we help him," Grayson spit, and he walked over to his brother, intending to help Xander up.
But the old man's hand closed around Grayson's wrist, and he was nowhere near as strong as Nash. He tried to jerk his arm out of his grandfather's grip, but it was like iron, and Grayson gasped at the pain.
"Let him go," Nash snapped, glaring at the old man from where he still crouched beside Xan.
"Not until Xander continues his test," Tobias Hawthorne said silkily. "Get up, boy."
Xan made a valiant effort to stand, but his injured ankle gave out, and Gray could see tears in his eyes. Nash reached out to pull Xan up, but Xan shook his head vehemently, his jaw clenched. He shoved his fingers into a crack in the rock face, hauling his trembling body into a standing position, albeit on only one foot.
"Good," the old man whispered. "Now climb."
Xan's left foot hung limp as he started to climb, almost hopping up the cliff. Grayson stared at him helplessly, then attempted to wrest his arm from his grandfather's grip. "Let me go!"
"And let you run off to help him?" the old man sneered. "No, Grayson. We can't have you doing that."
"You said family comes first," Grayson hissed, his voice trembling with fury. "You said I had to protect them. And that's what I'm trying to do—but you won't let me!"
"You are not the head of the Hawthorne family," the old man replied, his face carved from ice. "You do not make the decisions, Grayson. I do."
"You aren't making the right decisions, so no, you don't!" Grayson snarled, trying to yank his hand free. "Because you're not a protector! You're nothing but a cruel, heartless son of a—"
His grandfather's face twisted, and Grayson knew it was coming before it did.
The old man's hand slammed into his cheek so hard that Grayson saw stars, and Tobias Hawthorne threw him to the ground, finally releasing Grayson's wrist. He heard Nash's gasp and Jamie's small exclamation of fury, but he could hardly see anything past the cloud of swirling colors and small bright lights.
"We are done," the old man announced. "Your prowess was disappointing, Xander. Do better next year."
Grayson heard his footsteps start to retreat across the sand, then a little squeak that sounded like Xander—he was probably jumping off the cliff, hopefully into Nash's arms.
A hand touched his shoulder, and Gray blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision.
"Gray," Nash whispered hoarsely, his hand brushing Gray's hair off his forehead. "You okay, kiddo?"
"I—I'm fine," Gray mumbled, sitting up, one hand pressed to his cheek. "Is Xan okay?"
He could feel something warm and sticky on his fingertips—blood, obviously. It was most likely from his nose, which Gray supposed had also been hit. It didn't feel broken, but it still throbbed, along with his cheekbone.
"I'm okay," came Xan's voice, trembling. "I'll be fine, Gray, I promise. Thanks for trying to help me."
"The old man is so mean!" Jamie burst out, his face contorted in righteous anger. "We should start some kind of protest or something!"
Nash sighed heavily. "I'm really sorry, y'all. This is all my fault—as soon as I told the old man I didn't want to be his heir, he started takin' it out on you guys. That's not fair to you, and I'm sorry."
Gray put a finger to his older brother's lips. "Quiet, Nash. No one blames you. He's done this to all of us for years."
"But how do we stop him?" Jamie asked, and all four of them fell silent.
No one knew the answer.