Safe Hands

72. Broken bones

Grayson sat at the dining table, his stomach churning with each bite of food he forced down his throat. The once-appetizing scent of the meal now sickened him, but he had to comply. Charlie, sitting beside him, watched his every move, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I knew you would comply, and I prefer it when you obey me, Gray," Charlie purred, his voice cold, seeping under Grayson's skin like a poison.

Grayson didn't respond, his mind racing. Every second at this table, every bite of food was one more moment closer to the escape he had planned. Hera had brushed him with what felt like fairy tales, promises of escape routes and tunnels, but Grayson had to believe it was real. The alternative was worse—another encounter with Charlie's outlash might end with his body discarded somewhere no one would find him.

Charlie reached out suddenly, his hand hovering near Grayson's face, and instinctively, Grayson flinched. The movement was automatic, a reflex hammered into him from years of beatings, but he regretted it immediately. Charlie's smirk twisted into something darker.

"Grayson," Charlie's voice dropped to a low growl, "you know I hate it when you treat me like a monster."

Grayson clenched his jaw, suppressing the words that wanted to escape. He knew what happened when he provoked Charlie—it was made matters worse.

Charlie stood up abruptly, his body radiating danger. Grayson's stomach dropped as he shrank into his seat, the familiar cold dread curling in his gut. He recognized the signs: Charlie was gearing up to snap.

The door swung open, and Eddy entered, carrying a tray with a brown bottle and a syringe. Grayson's heart skipped. Not again.

Eddy placed the tray on the table without a word, and Grayson's mind reeled. Drugs. He knew what came next. Charlie had been trying to get him hooked on this stuff, using it to weaken him, to make him more vulnerable, more obedient.

As Eddy left, Hera appeared in the doorway. "The trailers are ready, Charlie. We're waiting for your command," she said, her voice steady. Charlie nodded, restless, his gaze never leaving Grayson.

Hera left just as she came, but something about it didn't seem right to Grayson, the door did not click. Was this the sign?

Charlie sighed dramatically, walking over to the tray where the bottle sat. "Gray, we need to talk seriously now." He picked up the syringe, filling it with the liquid as he spoke, his eyes fixed on Grayson, daring him to make a wrong move.

Grayson's heart pounded in his chest, his thoughts swirling. He needed to get out of here. He needed a distraction—anything to buy him time to reach the door and make a break for it.

Charlie approached him, sitting in front of him, syringe in hand. "I know I've been hard on you since you came back," he said, his voice nothing but deceitful, though laced with venom. "But it's only for a while. I just..." Charlie reached out, tracing a bruise on Grayson's face, his touch lingering near his lips. "I just need you to be a good boy, Gray. I need the code."

Grayson's breath caught, his skin crawling under Charlie's touch. He remained silent, his body tense, fighting every urge to recoil.

Charlie leaned closer, his breath stinking of alcohol and weed, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with something sick. "You've got beautiful eyes," Charlie said, almost wistfully. Grayson's stomach curled, "Do you remember, that day?"

Grayson clenched his fists under the table, his pulse hammering in his ears. He couldn't let this man get into his head. He had to hold it together.

"You said I was free, Charlie," Grayson said digging up a distraction, his voice barely a whisper. "You tried to kill me. If it wasn't for Peter, I would've been dead."