Page 8

Chapter 7

Zach

The team bus sways in rhythm with the potholes, every jolt a dull thud in my head, which is pressed against the cool glass. Outside, the New York winter sprawls endless and gray, the skeletal trees illuminated by the streetlights whip past like they’re mocking me.

The guys around me are loud, as usual. Jackson’s laughing at something Connor said, his voice sharp against the low hum of the bus. Five hours on this goddamn bus and my nerves are frayed to hell.

Jackson leans into my space as he stretches his legs into the aisle like he owns it. “So, what’s the plan for your brother?”

I turn my head to look at him, jaw clenched. "Not my brother."

"Fine. Stepbrother. Whatever." He rolls his eyes. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Laced coke. It'll be believable enough. Novotny’s guy said Merci’s done lines before. "

It’s a simple plan. Clean. Effective.

Jackson whistles faintly. “Brutal.”

I don't respond, just stare straight ahead. Viktor’s sitting with Coach Harper up front, their heads close together. My pulse rate escalates, a telltale sign of some emotional response, so I turn away and stare out the window, not in the mood to try to figure out what it means.

I wish I were normal, wish I could be like everyone else.

But I’m not.

Opening my phone, I send a quick message to the drug dealer supplying the coke, updating him on my ETA. Then I open the last video update Viktor sent me before we left Pennsylvania. Checking the feed would be impossible with him sitting next to Harper. The last thing I need is for that asshole to find out what we’re doing.

The bus finally lurches to a stop, and I’m the first one up, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. I make my way off the bus, Connor and Jackson close on my heels. The cold air bites at my skin through the material of my hoodie.

My SUV’s parked just a few feet away, lined up neatly with the others in our team’s unofficial row. Jackson’s red X7, Connor’s Maserati Grecale Folgore, Viktor’s blue Range Rover—because that fuck has everything in blue—and my blacked-out Land Rover .

Can’t wait until winter’s gone and we can get back to using our normal cars.

I’m halfway to my driver’s side door when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, already annoyed by the interruption, then glare at the text message on the screen.

Father: Come home immediately after you get back.

I swipe to unlock, then tap the app open and respond.

Me: I have plans.

Father: Cancel them. This is not a request.

Me: What’s this about?

Father: You’ll find out when you get here.

Fuck .

I need to get to the warehouse. Need to finish this and move on. But after overhearing my father mention the idea of institutionalizing me, I don’t push back as hard as I used to.

Opening the door, I toss my bag into the backseat and climb into the driver’s seat, the leather cold against my legs, even through my jeans. I send a quick message to the dealer, canceling our meeting.

After tossing my phone onto the passenger seat, I start the SUV. The ignition roars to life, and I pull out of the lot, leaving the others behind.

The drive back to the mansion is quiet, the low hum of the engine the only sound as I navigate the empty streets. Most people are still out of town for the holidays, leaving the streets of Crestwood deserted. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my head.

When I finally pull into the circular driveway, the sight of the house, even after all these years, irritates me—all stone and glass, pristine and perfect like everything else in my father's world.

Except for me.

I park next to my stepmother's Mercedes and get out. After climbing the front steps, I shove the front door open and step inside. Voices drift from the living room, and I follow them. But when I turn the corner I stop dead in my tracks .

Merci.

He’s sitting on one of the Italian leather couches, his legs crossed casually. His lavender eyes flick to me, sharp and calculating, and then he smiles. “Hello, brother.”

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. How the fuck is he here? Who—

"Zach," my father's voice cuts through my thoughts. He sits in his leather armchair, looking pleased—too pleased. “Your brother has finally come home."

"Stepbrother," I correct automatically, my voice flat.

Evelyn rises from her seat beside Merci, her face glowing with happiness. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"How fortunate. Let’s throw a fuckin’ party.”

Judging by the looks on my father’s and Evelyn’s faces, my words land like a grenade. But Merci snorts a laugh and leans back against the couch.

“Actually, I didn’t plan to be here, but sometimes you gotta surrender to the tides of life.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge beneath it.

I look from him to my father to Evelyn. Our parents’ expressions don’t show any hint they know how Merci got to New York. They just look . . . happy.

Relieved.

He didn’t tell them ?

Evelyn looks at her son again, brushing some of his black hair behind his ear. “Mrs. Novotny found him and brought him home.”

Fuck!

This day just keeps getting worse. And now the storm of emotions inside is spiraling out of control. My temples throb, my heart beating wildly.

My father looks at me and his smile falters, like it always does, and something inside snaps.

I grab the nearest object—a crystal vase full of roses—and hurl it against the wall. The crash is satisfying, the shards scattering across the floor like broken promises.

Evelyn jumps, her hand flying to her chest. "I'll just . . . take Merci to the kitchen. Get him something to eat." She touches his shoulder gently. "Come on, sweetheart."

As they pass, Merci leans close, his breath hot against my ear. "Can't kill me now. Especially since Viktor's mom brought me home. She'll skin you alive if you even try."

My hands curl into fists, but I don't move. Mrs. Novotny and my stepmother are good friends, which means I’m fucked. I’ll need to call Viktor later. Come up with a new plan.

"Zach." My father's voice has an edge to it. "Sit."

"No."

"This vendetta needs to stop." He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair .

“So, institutionalize me. You wanted to before.”

My father blanches. "You had your hands around Merci’s throat! In the middle of the cafeteria! What was I supposed to do?"

When I’d finally returned to high school after getting out of the hospital, I attacked my stepbrother, trying to strangle him until school safety pulled me off him. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

His words hit like a slap in the face. After years of taking me to both medical and psychiatric doctors, he knows I can’t process emotional shit.

And what the fuck would I say anyway? That I can’t control the anger burning through me whenever I see Merci. Can't understand why my skin crawls when he's near. Or, let’s try the fact I keep jerking off to thinking about him grinding against me in that club.

"I need to know you can handle Merci being home." He steps closer, his eyes searching my face for something I can't give. "Because if you can't, if there's even a hint that you might hurt him again. . . "

My nostrils flare and my breaths become shallow. “Let me guess, you’re going to commit me?”

"If that's what it takes to keep both of you safe." His voice softens. "Son, I know this isn't easy for you. The doctors explained—"

"I don't need another lecture about my ‘condition’." The words come out sharp, jagged. "I know what I am."

He shakes his head. "Do you?"

I swallow hard, my muscles tensing to the point where they’re shaking. He’s right. I don't understand. Can't understand. The insular cortex damage made sure of that.

My father reaches out, but I take a step back. He deflates a bit, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Merci’s permanent address never changed, which means he's still legally a resident of New York. He’s going to take the GED test, and if he passes, he'll attend Crestwood.”

No.

No fucking way.

My eyes narrow to mere slits. “You can’t be serious.”

“He deserves a future just as much as you do. And I will help him the same way I’ve helped you.”

My chest tightens, rage, hot and uncomfortable, building behind my ribs. "Helped? You mean hidden. The doctors, the trainers, the NDAs—"

"I did what I had to do to give you a chance at your dream. A chance at a normal life."

If only it were possible. “There’s nothing normal about me, never will be.”

“He’s family, Zach. You need to accept that.”

Family .

The word feels like a knife twisting in my gut. My mother left me. My father wrote me off the second I became too much to handle. And now, the cockroach who ruined my life is being paraded around and cared for more than I ever was.

My upper lip twitches into a snarl as I glare at my father. Then I turn and walk away. Once in my room, I slam the door. My fingers rake through my hair and wrap around the strands, then I tug them. Hard.

I keep yanking and pacing until the buzz of my phone in my pocket grabs my attention. Pulling it out, I read the message on the screen.

Vik: My mom found Merci.

Me: No shit. He’s here.

Vik: Sorry.

Me: Need to come up with a new plan.

Vik: Can’t help. I’ve been ordered to stay out of it.

Vik: Plus, she told Beckett.

Me: Of course. God forbid your boyfriend gets upset.

Vik: Stop.

Rather than responding, I throw my phone across the room, watching it bounce off the wall.

I’m on my own. Like always. And I always will be.

But I have to figure this out because Merci’s staying. He’s going to be in my space, in my life, every single day.

And I’ll be damned if there’s nothing I can do about it.

I should’ve killed him in Miami. Should’ve finished it before it got this far.

Or maybe, I should’ve died at the bottom of the stairs five years ago.

Either would’ve been easier than this.