Zach
I dischargethe doctor with a look that leaves no room for argument.No one is keeping Xavier from me tonight.Not after what happened.The rage inside me is a living thing, pulsing beneath my skin, demanding release.But I keep it contained, focused on getting Xavier home and safe first.
“Zach, honey,” Xavier’s mother says, her voice trembling as she approaches the bed.“Do you need anything?Should we come stay with you?”
“We’ve got it covered, Mrs.Blane,” I answer, softening my tone for her sake.She’s been good to me, accepting her son’s choice without judgment.“The club will have guards on the house twenty-four seven until this is handled.”
Xavier’s sister squeezes his hand, her eyes reflecting the same fierce protectiveness I feel.“Call us if you need anything, X.I mean it.”
An hour later, I’m tucking Xavier into our bed, arranging pillows to elevate his head slightly.The bandages make him look smaller somehow, vulnerable in a way that twists something painful in my chest.
“I’m okay,” he tells me, reading my expression.“Really, Zach.”
I don’t answer, just press a gentle kiss to his forehead before settling in the chair beside the bed.His medication kicks in soon after, pulling him into sleep while I sit vigil, my mind cataloging every detail of what I know so far.
The security cameras caught glimpses of four men, faces partially obscured but not enough to identify them.Grey’s already running the footage through facial recognition software the club “borrowed” from a friendly contact in law enforcement.The brick they threw had a message taped to it:Devil Souls fags not welcome here.
Not random.Targeted.
My phone buzzes at two a.m.
Grey’s text is simple.We got them.High school connection.
Something cold settles in my gut.I know immediately what this means, it’s the same assholes who tormented Xavier in high school, who made him hate himself for years.The same ones who beat him for being gay.They’ve resurfaced now that word has spread about the clinic, about us.
I’m out of the chair before I finish reading the text, moving silently so I don’t wake Xavier.His breathing remains steady, face peaceful in sleep despite the bandages.I brush my lips against his forehead again before slipping out of the room.
In the hallway, I make three calls in quick succession.My father.Grey.Demon.Each conversation is brief, my instructions clear.Twenty minutes later, we’re assembled in the driveway with my father’s truck idling behind mine, and Grey and Demon on their bikes.
“They at Miller’s place?”I ask Grey as he dismounts.
He nods, eyes cold in the moonlight.“All four of them.Celebrating their handiwork with beer and blow.Security system’s basic.I’ve got the override codes.”
“Good.”I check my gun, the familiar weight comforting in my palm.“No cuts, no colors.This isn’t club business.”
“The hell it isn’t,” my father growls, his massive frame emerging from the shadows.“They attacked family.”
“I don’t want this traced back to the Devil Souls,” I explain, holstering my weapon.“This is personal.”
My mother steps forward, her face a mask of controlled fury.She’s dressed all in black, hair pulled back tight.“I’m coming too.”
“Shay—” my father begins.
“Don’t,” she cuts him off with a look that would make a lesser man flinch.“That boy is like a son to me.Nobody hurts my family.”
I nod once, recognizing the futility of arguing with her when she’s like this.Besides, my mother can be more terrifying than my father when properly motivated.“Let’s go.”
The drive to Miller’s place takes twelve minutes.A small, run-down house on the edge of town where Justin Miller still lives with his alcoholic father.The same Justin Miller who held Xavier down while others beat him bloody all those years ago.The same one who’s apparently decided to continue his reign of terror into adulthood.
We park a block away, approaching on foot through the neighboring yards.Demon disables the security system with a few taps of his phone, and then we’re at the back door, listening to the sounds of drunken laughter inside.
“Remember,” I say quietly, meeting each pair of eyes in turn.“I want them alive.They need to understand exactly what they’ve done.”
Then I kick in the door with enough force to splinter the frame, the sound of breaking wood momentarily silencing the laughter inside.Four men freeze in various positions around the living room, bottles halfway to lips, lines of cocaine laid out on the coffee table, a game paused on the TV.
I recognize Justin Miller immediately.Older, fatter, but with the same cruel eyes I remember from high school.He’s on his feet first, shock quickly replaced by defiance.
“What the fuck—” he starts, reaching for something under the couch cushion.
