Page 29

Chapter 28

Zach

Merci's fidgeting in the passenger seat. He keeps tugging at his sweater, knee bouncing in rapid rhythm, and glances at me every few seconds like I don't notice.

I focus on the road, hands steady on the wheel as the Koenigsegg purrs beneath us, the smooth rumble a familiar comfort. Except my jaw is clenched to the point the joints are already aching as I calculate the possible chaos that might erupt at family dinner.

It’s been over a week since I carried Merci out of that fucking arena, vowing to burn the world down if anyone ever hurt him again. Our parents found out about the incident, and my father stepped in before I could handle it myself.

He had those fuckers expelled from Crestwood. One of them is even doing time.

Lucky for their parents .

Their families didn't press charges against anyone. At least not that we know of. I’m sure if they tried, our parents would’ve dealt with them.

A perk of being powerful multi-millionaires.

Despite the whole shitshow, Merci and I have kept our relationship hidden from our family. I wanted Merci to heal first, not add more trauma to the shit he's already been through. My father's always been a cold bastard, more concerned with appearances than anything real.

And my stepmother?

She’s a complete wildcard.

Merci lets out a heavy sigh, slumping back in his seat. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The one where you go all robot mode and act like you’re not freaking out when you clearly are.” He turns to face me, his lavender eyes studying my face. "Pretty sure your jaw's about to shatter from clenching it so hard."

“I’m not freaking out.” It’s technically true. I don’t panic like others do. I analyze. Calculate outcomes. Plan contingencies. Even if my physical responses aren’t as logical.

"Uh-huh." He snorts, lips quirking up at the corners. "You're such a shit liar. It's almost adorable."

I don’t respond. Instead, I check the rearview mirror where Connor's Maserati Grecale Folgore follows. My friends decided we needed backup—or what they call "support"—so they invited themselves along.

Merci shifts in his seat, picking at his pants as if trying to remove some invisible piece of lint. “Do you think they’ll hate us?”

I glance at his face, taking in his furrowed brow and the way he worries his bottom lip. My hand finds his knee, stilling its constant motion. "They'll deal with it."

His eyes meet mine, softening slightly. "You really believe that?"

"I'm not letting you go. So they don't get a choice."

Ahead, the mansion's iron gates appear. I pull up, punch in the code, and the they swing open with a mechanical whir.

We come to a stop beside my stepmother's Mercedes, Connor right behind us. After cutting the engine, I turn to Merci. "Ready?"

"Fuck no." Merci exhales sharply, unbuckling his seat belt. "But let's do this anyway."

We step out just as another car door slams, our friends emerging from Connor’s SUV. Jackson immediately stretches, groaning dramatically. "Can't believe Walsh made me sit in the back like some peasant."

Viktor snorts, adjusting his jacket. "Please. You just wanted to annoy the shit out of everyone with your stupid taste in music. "

“Excuse me? Thought you’d like 80’s music since you know . . . your boyfriend is old.”

Instead of engaging, I stride ahead up the stone path toward the front door.

“Hey, asshole.”

Merci’s clipped tone makes me pause mid-step. I glance over my shoulder to where he’s standing with one hand planted on his hip. “Yes, Little Scorpion?”

Viktor snorts. “Damn, forgot the mouth he has on him.”

“Shut it, Fungus. You’re damaging my calm.” Merci gives him the finger as he walks over to me, leaning against my side.

Connor shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Hate to break it to you, Merci, but you wouldn't know calm if it slapped you in the face."

Viktor rocks back on his heels, his insufferable smirk growing wider by the second. "This is going to be an interesting dinner."

Merci huffs, rolling both his eyes and head. "Don't you have a boyfriend to harass?"

"He's with Coach Rinni.” Viktor walks over and drapes an arm across my shoulder, grinning when Merci's eyes narrow. “Besides, you think I'd miss this trainwreck? Not a chance in hell. "

"If you don't remove your arm in the next three seconds, I’ll find the nearest chainsaw and turn your fingers into lovely wall decorations." Merci taps his chin, looking up at the sky. "I'm thinking above our parents’ fireplace. It’ll really tie the room together."

"Aw, still so possessive." Viktor squeezes my shoulder once before letting go. "It's adorable."

Merci's lips curve into a razor-sharp smile, all teeth and promised violence. "Keep touching him, and I'll make sure your boyfriend finds pieces of you packaged with pretty little bows."

Jackson snickers behind us. "Five bucks says Merci tries to kick him in the face again."

"Fifty says he makes Viktor spit chiclets before dinner’s over," Connor responds.

I turn my head slowly, fixing him with an unblinking stare. "Remind me again why you're here?"

Connor straightens, shoulders squaring as his eyes lock onto mine with the same intensity he brings to the ice. "Moral support."

"Speak for yourself. I'm just here for the food." Jackson grins like the asshole he is.

Shaking my head, I continue up the stone path toward the mahogany front doors. After unlocking them, we all step inside. The foyer is warm and bright, the soft murmur of conversation and clink of silverware drifting from the formal dining room.

Jackson inhales deeply. "Damn, something smells amazing. Guess we’re having Italian for dinner."

Merci hesitates beside me, and I take his hand in mine, squeezing gently. Eli explained this is how to show emotional support. Physical gestures are easier for me to navigate than emotional ones.

They're concrete, measurable.

"If I have to stand in this doorway one more second listening to Jackson's stomach growl, I'm going to lose my shit," Merci says, though his knuckles are white where he grips my hand.

Together, we walk down the hallway, our friends following behind us. The dining room feels smaller than usual despite its vaulted ceilings and late afternoon sun streaming through the expansive windows.

"Merci." My stepmother rises from her chair, arms outstretched to greet her son. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

"I'm good, Mom." He releases my hand and accepts her hug. "Just some lingering soreness."

She pulls back to examine his face, where the bruising on his cheek has faded to yellowish green. She turns to me with a warm smile. "Thank you for taking such good care of him. "

Viktor snickers behind us. "Oh, he's definitely been very attentive."

Connor elbows him, but he's grinning too.

My father stands and walks over, his expression softening slightly as he clasps my shoulder. "Good to see you, son." His gaze shifts between Merci and me. "It's nice seeing you two finally getting along."

I force a short nod, my molars grinding together. It's the most I can manage when he acts like he cares. When he pretends the distance between us doesn't exist.

"Please, everyone, sit." He gestures to the table. "Viktor. Connor. Jackson. Good to see you boys again."

"Thanks for having us," Connor says as we all take our seats.

When Merci and I sit beside each other, my father's brows raise before he looks at my stepmother. She offers him a soft smile before picking up the serving spoon for the lasagna, neither commenting.

"It smells amazing," Jackson says as my stepmother fills his plate.

"Thank you." She beams at him. “Actually, my husband has been taking some online cooking classes and made the pasta himself.”

My fingers tighten around my water glass. We've always had live-in chefs, even after my father married Evelyn, since his cooking expertise never extended beyond the grill. The idea of him in a kitchen, learning to make pasta from scratch, is . . . unexpected.

"Stephen's become quite the chef," my stepmother adds as she passes a plate of lasagna to Connor. "Though I did help with the sauce."

"Homemade pasta for dinner?" Viktor glances between Merci and me as he picks up his glass of wine. “Must be a special occasion.”

I kick him hard under the table. Fucking asshole better keep his mouth shut and not ruin this before we’re ready.

"We’re just glad to have everyone here. It's been too long since we've had a proper family dinner." My father motions toward the food with an open palm. "Please, dig in."

The conversation flows around us. Jackson praises the garlic bread, Connor discusses his latest business class with my father, and Viktor tries to be the overall center of attention.

But I can't focus on anything except Merci. His fork keeps scraping against his plate, pushing food around instead of eating it. When his knee starts bouncing under the table, I rest my hand on his thigh, steadying him.

My stepmother's eyes keep darting between us, lingering on the way Merci leans into my space. Her expression shifts from curiosity to something softer. "Merci, sweetheart, could you please pass the rolls? "

He passes the basket, offering her a shaky smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. For a moment, the dining room falls into comfortable silence broken only by the clink of silverware.

But then Viktor shifts in his chair, turning to my stepmother. "So, Merci's name. It means 'thank you,' right? Like, in French?"

What the hell is he up to?

She straightens in her chair, her chin lifting slightly. "Yes. I was thankful for my son. He was the only light I had in my life at the time. Is that a problem?"

"Not at all." Viktor's smile widens as he turns to face me, and my hand tightens on Merci’s thigh. "Just makes what Zach says even funnier."

Merci drops his fork, the metal clanging against his plate. “Fungus, don’t you fucking dare.”

But it’s too late.

“‘Fuck, thank you. That’s it. Take my cock like a good slut, thank you. Such a tight little hole, thank you.’” Viktor’s voice is a perfect mimic of mine—flat, mechanical, but entirely too loud for the situation.

Merci launches himself across the table like a feral cat. Food splatters everywhere as plates, utensils and glasses clatter to the ground as he tackles Viktor. The moment they hit the floor Merci's hands wrapped around Viktor's throat .

Jackson lets out a loud, barking laugh as he leans back in his chair to avoid the chaos, and Connor smiles wide, showing off his perfect white teeth.

"On what planet would anyone want their parents to hear that shit?" Merci smacks Viktor hard across the face. "You're such an asshole!"

Viktor’s wheezing with laughter, not even bothering to defend himself as Merci continues to rain down a barrage of slaps.

I sigh and make my way over to the two jackasses. Grabbing Merci around the waist, I lift him off Viktor like a particularly unruly cat. These two need a shock collar or, at minimum, constant supervision.

Once we are back on our side of the table, I release Merci. He glares at Viktor, his chest heaving and hair a wild mess as he straightens his clothes. “Thanks for outing us, jackass.”

Viktor just grins, wiping a smear of mashed potatoes off his cheek. “Anytime.”

"Oh." Evelyn glances between us as we sit back down. "You're . . . dating?"

"Yes." My response is immediate, definitive. No room for argument or discussion.

"I knew something was different." She reaches across the table to squeeze Merci's hand. "Are you happy, sweetheart? ”

Merci exhales sharply and leans against me. "Very."

Evelyn has always been accepting, wanting to make this family work. But I wasn’t sure what to expect from her. Statistically, she could have gone either way, especially with Merci’s and my volatile history.

I look over at my father just as his hand slams against the table. "Absolutely not. Have you forgotten what happened? You tried to kill each other!"

"We’ve resolved those issues.” I straighten, my voice calm yet unyielding. As I told Merci earlier, I’m not letting him go.

My father leans forward, lips pressed into a thin line, a vein near his temple throbbing. "Your condition—"

"You mean his brain damage?" Merci glares at my father. "Maybe if you and my mom actually told us about it instead of just calling him 'different' all the time, none of this shit would have happened. But hey, great fucking parenting there."

"We thought we were doing the right thing." My stepmother looks down at her plate, shoulders dropping. "Obviously, we were wrong."

He huffs, rolling his eyes. “Understatement of the fucking year.”

"Merci Laurent." She sets her fork down with a deliberate clink, brows pinching together. "Watch your language. "

Viktor presses a fist to his mouth, trying to contain his laughter, while Jackson continues eating like everything is perfectly normal. Connor sips his wine while watching the show.

Some fucking support system they turned out to be.

My father runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, deep creases forming across his forehead. "You have no idea what kind of care Zach might need as he gets older. His brain could degenerate. Do you understand how hard that would be to deal with alone?"

I stare at him, nostrils flaring. The possibility of declining is nothing new, but hearing it so bluntly being used as a reason to keep us apart makes me want to punch him in the face.

Merci jumps up from his chair, both palms slamming down on the table as he leans across it. “He’s not alone! We’re not alone! Look around the table. His teammates aren’t just friends. They’re his family. They’ve been taking care of him all this time. More than you ever did.”

I place a hand on his lower back, trying to calm my little scorpion. But he’s too fired up, continuing to glare at my father, who appears to have temporarily replaced Viktor as enemy number one.

“You don't know what it's like to watch your child change overnight because you made one stupid mistake." My father's voice cracks, something raw and broken bleeding through. “I have to live with that every single day.”

The room goes still, everyone now staring at him.

"What?" The word falls from my lips, barely a whisper, but it feels like a thunderclap.

"It was my fault." My father's jaw slackens, brows pinching together, lips parted as he draws a shaky breath. "That winter vacation . . . I'd been drinking with my buddies. Took you out on the snowmobile and hit a mogul wrong." He turns away to avoid my gaze. "You went flying. Hit your head on the back of the snowmobile. Even with the helmet . . . the impact . . . "

My chest is too tight, as if something's wrapped around it, squeezing all the air out of my lungs. The memory isn't there—just a blank space where it should be.

"You used to smile all the time. You were so silly, so full of life. And then I . . . I broke you. I ruined my own son. That's why I’ve always been distant. Why I couldn't . . . I hated myself too much." The tears streaming down his face are a sight I never thought I’d see. The man who’s always been so composed is falling apart in front of me.

My body starts to shake, and I can't make it stop. So many emotions are swirling inside me and I can’t make sense of them all. Pushing my palms into my thighs, I try to calm down.

But it’s not working .

"Talk to me." Merci's voice cuts through the fog as he rests a hand on my forearm.

Viktor tosses a stress ball across the table. I catch it midair and squeeze rhythmically, trying to quell the chaotic storm building inside me.

"My chest hurts like something’s pressing down on it, making it hard to breathe. My body’s shaking. Heart rate elevated." I squeeze the ball harder, a loud ringing filling my ears. "Can't . . . can't process. Too many sensations at once."

"Keep going," Merci encourages softly, thumb brushing over my knuckles.

I look directly at my father. “You stayed, but you weren't here. Not really. I thought I wasn't enough. That I was too broken to love. Even if I can’t fully process the emotion, I understood enough to recognize how you treated me was different."

"I'm so sorry. I should have gotten help. Should have dealt with my grief instead of making you think any of this was your fault." He lifts a trembling hand, wiping the corners of his eyes to clear the tears that have gathered. "Can you ever forgive me?"

I stare at him, trying to read his expression and understand the emotions playing across his face. It's like looking at a book in a language I can't quite read—I recognize the letters, but the meaning eludes me .

“Take your time,” Connor says, setting his glass of wine down. “Process it. We’re all here for you.”

I look at my friends, then at Merci, each offering me patience, understanding, and support. My fingers tighten around the stress ball. "It changes nothing. And everything. The damage is done. But the distance makes sense now."

My father gets up from his chair, walks to my side, then crouches down so he’s at eye level. “If I could go back and change it all, I would. But that’s impossible, so I promise to do better moving forward. And your friends have set the bar high. I hope, if anything, you can at least give me the chance to make it right.”

"I forgive you," I say simply because holding onto whatever this feeling is won't change anything.

Tears stream down my father’s cheeks as he leans in and wraps his arms around me. It’s been years since he’s hugged me, and it's awkward and stiff. But something inside me settles, a tension ebbing away because I understand now.

In some way, we're all broken.

As I return the hug, I glance around the table at my friends and family.

I’ll be okay because no matter what happens in the future, I'm not alone. I never really was.