Page 131 of Hurt

Blood.

It was still wet. He didn’t need to bend down and feel it to know it would still be warm.

They were too late.

A hole opened up in his stomach and despair battled with anger. Kurt was gone. The Vegas had him, no doubt dragging him so far behind their territory lines they would never be able to find him. They had spent years looking for the Catacombs with nothing but a vague idea of where it could be.

His breathing was ragged, and he was dizzy. How could this happen? He had him. Kurt was here. Safe. He had made a promise. Grant squeezed his palm so tightly the scabs on his palm cracked. Fresh blood trickled between his clenched fingers and dripped onto the ground.

Only years of self-imposed discipline kept him upright. His spine remained stiff not out of desire but out of years of training. Grant wasn’t allowed to collapse. He was the backbone for his family. Even when his world was tilting, he had to be the stabilizer. The voice of reason.

Closing his eyes, he felt the sting of pain on his palm and he pushed it. He let the pain grow until it enveloped his entire hand. Until it was the only thing he could feel.

Roland walked up beside him and tossed something into the gravel.

Grant opened his eyes. “Tony’s belt?”

“Mn.”

A black leather belt was coiled in the pool of blood. The Weaver’s tracking chip was barely visible on its dark underside.

“They figured it out,” Grant said coldly.

“Or Kurt went to them.” Roland’s tone was even but it didn’t matter. Grant could hear the accusations in the spaces between the words.

“What are you saying?”

Roland didn’t elaborate.

He didn’t have to.

Grant was moving so fast that he didn’t realize it. His hand went around his brother’s throat, and he shoved him into the car with such force his rings slammed into the side window and cracked it.

Roland’s face was blank but there was a fire in his amber eyes. They widened fractionally when he saw the look on Grant’s face.

“He would never,” Grant said with more certainty that he had ever felt in his entire life. His arms trembled with the force of his conviction. Roland didn’t know Kurt like he did. He hadn’t seen the scars or the fear in his eyes. He hadn’t seen those soft moments of vulnerability.

Grant had seen them. Kurt had bent low and kissed him, ripped off the fragile Band-Aid holding himself together and gave Grant a piece. A soft kiss. A head on his shoulder.

More than that, more than those moments that meant so much to Grant, was the look of sheer determination. Kurt wanted to live.

Grant’s fingers dug into the soft spots of Roland’s jaw—hard enough to leave bruises. Hard enough that his brother flinched.

He caught sight of his reflection in his brother’s cool eyes. Roland wasn’t flinching at the pain, but at the look on Grant’s face.

Forcing himself to let go, he stepped back and ran his bloody fingers through his hair.

He closed his eyes and felt his world spinning.

Kurt’s face came to him. Dark, hooded eyes looked at him from across the kitchen. There was an ever so slight curl in his lips, even as he was keeping space between them, even as his fear demanded retreat, he was standing beside Grant telling him he wasn’t adding enough spices.

Abruptly the spinning came to a stop, and he opened his eyes.

Grant was a man prone to overthinking, but this was the simplest thing in the world. He was raised to hide himself. To never let them see the real him. His greatest weapon was a cloak of innocence. They saw a man, but Grant was a killer.

He hid the monster inside. Kept it satiated and caged, a beast that was held back by a lock made of rationality and propriety.

The Vega Cabal had just snapped that lock.