Page 20 of Prince of Wrath

“He agreed to spin the story around,” Nate rumbles on the phone while my girl eats quietly at the kitchen island. I almost burnt her omelet because cooking has never been on my list of skills, but I guess it was still edible since she is currently closing her eyes, chewing in an adorable way. “Tris? You’re there?” Focus.

“Good.”

“Bad news is…he said he wouldn’t spare you.” A public downfall. Just the thing I needed.

“I didn’t expect him to.”

“We’re gonna have to find a way to regain trust, or…” Nate trails off.

“I’m on it.” My knight draws back to its original square, rerouting its path. Bishops are blocking me, and I have to think fast to make my way back to the king. Chess pieces move above me on the invisible ceiling I made up, and I blink, watching pawns move, accepting the loss of a few pieces to have the best comeback later.

“Right,” he rasps. “Any news from the cops?”

“Nah.” I run a palm over my freshly shaved jaw. “The rat is still on the run. They found a dozen men underground too. Some of them didn’t make it, a few of them are in surgery, and one seems able to open up, so they’re currently making him talk.” I had the chief of police on the phone right after arriving home, while Ella settled in the living room. The calmness of the last twenty-four hours is now replaced by the madness of an endless to-do list of tasks I needed to tackle before lunch. The whole thing melted in with trying to be present for Ella, meaning juggling between being a shark and a protective man, opening and closing the vulnerable, emotional window every ten minutes, which is a sport I am not well suited for yet.

When on the phone, I want to be with her. When with her, I cannot ignore the raging fire behind us, threatening to break us apart and terminate my life’s work in deafening headlines and news anchors.

“We need to find him.”

“We?” Nate calls me out. “Don’t you mean the cops? You said you wanted to do things differently, not, like…” Our father.

“I know, but…” My hand is twitching with a thirst for violence that is as enticing as it is repulsive. Pacing and pacing, I bump into the dresser in the entryway, causing the thick antique porcelain lamp shatter to the ground in a dozen pieces. Shit. I kneel, wanting to clean everything up so Ella will not cut herself, nor my housekeeper who will be there around lunchtime. Exploded, pearly and shattered on the light wooden floor designed with an intricate pattern the designer had called Versailles style.

Fragmented. A buzzing sound. I blink once. Twice. And I try to push it away, but it all comes back in a second. Like a fucking dog on my trail, grabbing my bones at every chance. The same relentless memory, haunting me, bringing me back to where it all started.

* * *

Westbridge Juvenile Rehabilitation Center

Tristan

16 years old.

“Come on.”

“I don’t want to,” I said coldly.

“I told you to hit him. So do it.” Johann smirked, pointing at the kid. The hand on the back of my neck tightened. What an asshole. Older than me by a year, yet stronger than all the boys in the center. A tall guy who was only seventeen but had the build of a farmer who’d had enough and wanted to teach us a lesson. His fingers dug into my nape, iron hard and damp with sweat, forcing me to look at the kid in front of me, playing his favorite game of making us fight one another. I had seen guards exchanging dollars, and I was pretty sure an ongoing betting ring ran around us, commanded by this piece of shit.

Facing the small little guy, I gritted my teeth. He was small in the sense that I knew, everywhere he went, he’d be the butt of the joke, the excuse, the mistake, the one used to show what no one should be—floating in his uniform. Weak and afraid. The lethal combination of what it meant to be food here. And there were a lot of them hungry for violence, looking for an excuse to strike, for someone to aim at. Easy and silent. Because those guys would stay silent. They had no other option. Or they could find someone to take them under their wing, which I would have gladly done if not for my sole vital need to stay alive without ending up like him too.

The whole place was as good as a jungle. Everything was a matter of survival, and helping was a luxury I couldn’t afford, never mind the millions my father owned.

Some would brag about why they were here. Fighting. Attacking girls. Disturbing classrooms and getting involved in shady businesses. Others, like me, and perhaps like this kid in front of me, didn’t say it. That I had been brought here because my cold nature wasn’t enough for my father. He wanted to build a shark and he didn’t like the chess player in me, the calm, silent strategist.

A man. A real one.

That was what he used to say after hitting me in the face, slapping me, using the stick he kept in the first drawer of his office to teach me that weakness never gave anyone anything. He wanted me to fight. He wanted me to box and not focus on useless activities like archery or coding. I had my vision, my perspective. To me, people were more likely to obey a command after it was explained clearly and the whole picture was understood, not after being threatened or yelled at. I believed calm would get me further than excessive ego, pride, and the occasional violent outburst to scare employees, as I had seen several times when accompanying him to his office. As long as he cherished my mother - and he did most of the time - I accepted it. But sending me here, convincing her it would be good for me, and letting me rot in this hell was a low blow I would never forget.

That was the thing about Westbridge. Some of us had done something. Some had parents who were tired, mean, embarrassed, poor, rich, drunk, bored, or cruel enough to sign a paper and call it help. Rehabilitation Center. That was stamped on the front sign in clean blue letters. What a joke. What a fucking joke it was, so funny it ran cold until I felt nothing.

There was no rehabilitation here. No real teachers. I’d say it was a military camp in disguise. The classrooms were empty except for chairs and tables. Although we’d never sat there. I guess it was all for show when parents visited, hesitating, not knowing if this torture place would suit their child. Run, I wish I could have told every one of them. But it was a last resort for parents who couldn’t control their offspring. And so they went here, and so did I. All of us, brought here for a year to wake up at four and do nonstop physical activities, walk in the forest, fight one another, endure solitary confinement, starvation when it was on the menu, and unfair punishment from the guards every single day. Didn’t look down? One strike of a stick to the knees. Didn’t make your bed properly because a giant fucking asshole unmade it for you? No food for two days.

Violence grew in this place; I could smell it. Breeding in the walls, under the cafeteria tables, in the beds where we pretended to sleep but kept our shoes on because bare feet made you too slow. There were guys who could be allies. One was named Matt, and as of now, we had traded a chocolate bar for a piece of bread, and I guess that was the closest thing to friendship around here.

The small kid swallowed.

“Hit him,” the big guy said again, then pushed me forward. The small kid stumbled back, hands half-raised. Just like me in front of my father every week, when he decided a whipping with his buttery leather belt was needed.