Page 15 of This Might Hurt

ANDREW

Once upon a time, there was a king whose hunger had no end. He was neither cruel nor kind; he was simply indomitable. The world and everyone in it existed for him to devour.

The only thing he could not control was luck.

His firstborn child, the heir to everything, dared to be born a girl.

She tainted the line of succession, an unforgivable weakness that other kings would gladly exploit.

His wife gave him two strong sons soon after, but this softhearted modern world wouldn't allow him to cast her aside in favor of someone fit to rule.

The poor child grew up unloved, her brothers waiting like wolves for the first chance to tear away everything that should have belonged to them.

Out of desperation, she gave the king the only gift he wanted.

Two weeks after her eighteenth birthday, she married and conceived a son.

Her husband died soon after, but it hardly mattered.

She raised her young prince as the perfect heir she couldn’t be, a shield from her father’s anger and a sacrifice on the altar of his power.

But her brothers won’t let go so easily.

As the king grows old, his children have already drawn the battle lines.

“Andrew. We’re here.”

I lift my head at Grant’s subdued voice. He thinks I’ve been asleep, but I listened to every minute of the last two hours of dead silence. I felt the change in the air when we crossed from Wyoming back into southern Montana, even though it was too dark to see the border.

He brought a thermal bag packed by some kitchen staffer—a tomato and basil sandwich, some grapes.

I’m so hungry I feel dizzy, but if I tried to eat my stomach would revolt and I’d have to puke in a ditch.

The wool coat is nice, though. It wraps around me like armor, and I don’t have to look at Jude’s clothes.

The three a.m. sky is just starting to lift from black to gray at the edges as we crest a rise overlooking the fenced compound.

Security lights illuminate the shapes of an enormous house, two garages, two pools, an empty stable, staff housing, and storage for ATVs and boats.

I really fucking hoped I’d never have to see this again, but some part of me knew all along that I was going to come crawling back.

“I called ahead for the doctor to meet you,” Grant says as we approach the front gate, gesturing toward my massacred hand. It’s been hurting so badly for so many hours now that I don’t really notice it anymore.

“I heard.”

His sturdy forearms flex as he waits for the gate to slide open in the same leisurely way it shut behind me this morning, like it’s mocking me. When we approach the big house, I can see a faint light on in my mother’s bedroom window.

Grant pulls up on the concrete pad beside the tasteless three-story edifice of metal and glass, but doesn’t turn off the engine.

I watch his profile as he frowns at the steering wheel for a long time.

“I—” He rubs his chest uneasily, his voice dropping so low I almost can’t hear him.

“You know that you don’t have to do this, right?

If you tell me to keep driving, I will.”

I stare at him, lost for words. If he’s being this reckless, he must suspect why I left today. It’s not exactly hard to figure out, when you see the things he sees. “Grant.” His expression slides back into polite emptiness when he sees my face. “Get some sleep and clear your head.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.” But when I push the passenger door open, he clears his throat. “I’m taking this car to get detailed and repaired. It’ll be in his garage before lunch, okay? Good as new.”

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thank you.” I already lost the game, because it wasn’t in the garage at midnight like he said. But this is better than nothing. “I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t forget your watch.”

When I look back, confused, Grant fishes in the center console and carefully takes out the Patek that Jude must have hidden there. Fuck that boy. He rejected the only thing I could give him that mattered.

As I cross to the side door, I can hear Grant on his two-way radio.

“Main house, east door. Andrew coming in.” I patiently wait the fifteen seconds it takes for the lock to click and swing open, letting me into a long, dark hall with a guard who steps out of my way and lowers his eyes.

The level of security here is absurd, mostly because it makes my uncles feel important.

A strip of knee-high safety lights guides me into a simple two story lounge with a wall of windows looking east. During the day, they survey thirty miles of untouched grassland ringed by pale blue mountains.

I squint painfully at the light coming from the attached kitchenette as a tall figure in a white collared shirt stands up from one of the stools at the island. “Dr. Fuentes.”

The handsome, gray-haired Latino man nods, like this is a normal place to meet. “Good morning, Mr. Innes.”

I check my watch skeptically. I’d apologize for getting him out of bed in the middle of the night, but he’s paid more than generously for this.

He chuckles. “Morning in the most technical sense. Grant tells me there’s a concern about your hand?”

“Concern?” I echo vaguely, lifting my right hand for the first time to study the purplish swelling, the crust of dried blood around a gash on my middle knuckle. How did this happen again? I’m feeling lightheaded. “I guess so.”

The zipper of his black bag sounds loud in the heavy silence as he opens it, then pats the tall stool next to his thigh. “May I?”

“Mm.” Hugging my jacket closer around myself, I sit obediently and rest my arm on the cool quartz countertop. The harsh yellow light hurts my eyes as he visually assesses the damage. He’s about to ask what the fuck I did. Gentle fingers cup my wrist, lifting it.

“Extend your fingers as far as you can, please. Take it slowly.”

I can’t quite bite back a soft whine of pain as I force my trembling hand flat.

My left hand slips into the pocket of my sweatpants and wraps tight around something I told myself to leave behind in the car, for the cleaners to throw away.

The rounded corners of the worn-out lighter dig deep into my grip, the metallic surface warming against my skin as the doctor gently tests the limits of my movement.

“Good. Now curl them, please.” He sounds relieved, which seems promising. “Can I ask how the injury occurred?”

Just as I shake my head, someone whistles in the doorway. “Damn, Andrew.”

My head jerks up, breath catching at the quiet, velvety voice.

Colin, the younger of my two uncles, crosses the quiet kitchen with a laptop under one arm, his silk lounge pants swishing softly.

He pulls his glasses down out of his dark hair and squints at my hand.

In most wealthy families the sons fight each other for power, but he and Archie have worked together their entire lives like a well-oiled machine with one goal—taking the company from my mother and I.

When I glance instinctively past Colin toward the doorway leading to the rest of the house, he chuckles. “Relax. He hasn’t even left Cancun yet.” I don’t bother to hide the relief on my face; my fear of Archie is no secret in this family.

Dr. Fuentes keeps his head down politely as he works. He’s feeling along each finger now, probing the bones and knuckles, and it hurts so much I want to vomit.

“That looks disgusting,” Colin comments helpfully as he pulls open the fridge.

The staff stocks it with snacks to save us the trouble of walking across the house for food—fruit, cold cuts, cartons of salad, and a bunch of the carefully prepared overnight oats and protein shakes Archie demands but never eats.

The doctor lets go of me, my wretched skin protesting the loss of any human contact, and moves silently toward the sink to fill a bowl with warm water.

“I did the interview you flaked out on this morning, with that magazine.” Raising his voice over the sound of the tap, Colin grabs a bottle of juice and straightens up with a groan, like thirty-eight is unbearably old.

“You’re the only one young enough to understand all this AI crap, but I did my best.”

“Thank you,” I murmur flatly. “I’m sorry.

” I didn’t read the interview brief, assuming I wouldn’t be around long enough to care, so I have no idea what AI crap he’s talking about.

My current title in the company is Chief Impact Officer, which means I get pointed in the direction of issues related to social conscience, environmentalism, and ethical use of tech and told to make it go away while boosting our image.

Fuentes brushes past me and sets the heavy bowl down. The swaying water casts ghostly flickers of light on the wall. “I’m going to clean the cuts,” he explains softly, “then bandage you up. Nothing’s broken.”

I nod, staring at my uncle’s burgundy cable-knit sweater as he props his elbows on the counter and fiddles with the seal on his drink. He smirks at me. “Fuentes.”

All our staff know that tone of voice. Fuentes lifts his head immediately, and Colin jerks his chin toward the door.

The tawny-skinned man frowns a little impatiently. “Can I finish—”

“Five minutes. Fuck off.”

“Sorry,” I murmur at his back as he goes, but he just offers me an uneasy smile and disappears.

Without his warm presence in the room, the permanent cold that haunts this place settles along my skin.

Colin chooses a yogurt cup from the fridge and pries the lid off noisily, then comes around and sits on the vacated stool, his knees bumping mine.

Despite the hour, he doesn’t look tired; the man keeps his own bizarre schedule to accommodate international meetings.

I never know when or where I’m going to find him next.

“So, did you have a nice day?” He stirs the yogurt without taking his eyes off me.