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I feel his nod, a stiff acceptance, his jaw moving beside my face. “Yeah. I bet.”
A throat clears behind us, so I scramble from Xander’s lap, who reluctantly allows me to move to the edge of his bed.
Ahead of us, Clay Butcher and the doctor are at the foot of the bed, the others are spread around the room, with Cassidy, the blonde woman, and the little girl still outside on the waiting chairs. The room is full enough with all those Butcher men.
I shrink internally but square my shoulders outwardly. Xander feeds his hands through my hair, gliding through the strands, and I don’t miss the way Clay’s eyes watch the entire interaction. Whatever Clay Butcher—the Boss—is thinking or feeling is a mystery.
“Hit me with it, doc,” Xander says with ease that doesn’t match the mood circling the hospital room.
The doctor gazes at me. “Miss, excuse us. You should probably leave the—”
“No,” Clay states, and I freeze under his smooth tone, a seriously unapologetic dominance to the rich timbre. His presence is so fucking powerful, his voice literally steels my bones. “She can stay where she is.”
Clay and I share a look, a truce, a bridge, I don’t know what, but it’s a split second of significance. And now he’s looking at the doctor again, ordering, “Go on, Matthews.”
Matthews continues, “We did an MRI. You have swelling, but no more than I would expect. But your friend here”—he gestures to Stacey, and she looks at the ground— “has informed me that you had tremors the other day? Is that right?” He pulls the clipboard from the end of the bed, bracing it in front of him, eyes cutting to Xander over the top. “How often has that happened?”
Xander sighs roughly, then looks across at me, eyes coasting over my face, the time stretching.
“What?” I ask softly, wanting to help.
“That would have been scary for you,” he says to me, confusing me and bringing more tears to my eyes. I frown as he lifts my hair and holds it to his nose, inhaling.
Answer the question, Xander.
God, please answer him.
“Xander,” the brunette woman says, moving to his side. She touches his arm, her gaze solemn with knowledge, and I don’t think I want to know what she clearly knows. “Focus.”
I bite back a whimper.Focus.It feels like a steady decline. Like I’m watching him slowly fall apart, and with every second that passes, he slips a little further away, a little more lost. And I can’t hold on to him, keep him grounded.
I clutch his hand. “Xander,” I mutter again, my throat tight as I nod toward the doctor, who I hate now because he’s scrutinising the interaction through such a clinical gaze.
Xander blinks, eyes lifting, his trance dissolving when he looks back at the man with the clipboard. “Shaking hands? It’s normal, Doc. That’s part—"
“No!” A rough voice soars in. The bellowing tempo could only belong to Luca Butcher. “It damn well is not normal unless you have a fracture, my boy.” Max and Bronson part for their father as he passes through the door. The room is even more crowded now. Xander and I are centre stage.
In this moment, I understand him a little better. The‘be the person who stays for me, who listens to me’makes sense. He’s alone in a crowded room because they are all such large personalities. Being the youngest of a brood like this, being the one they coddle. It’s easy to feel small and unheard, even if it’s a flawed perception.
“Do you have a fracture, my boy? A glass slipping from your hand is notnormal.Disassociation in the moment, like in the ring, in the bar with Stacey, your fists were shaking that day you shadow boxed,se.Not normal. I saw this with my own eyes. Don’t play me a fool, my boy!”
“I was distracted that day. That’s all.”
“Cut the crap!” he barks. “I should have—” His voice holds self-loathing and regret.
The doctor attempts to pacify the energy, taking the conversation back. “How is your memory, Xander?”
I gasp, and they all hear it, eyes shifting to me.I’m a blackout drunk, Kaya.I lift my chin in defiance, but glance away from their gaze.
Xander nods his answer, watchful of his father’s levelling stare, before saying, “Yeah. I’ve had a few blackouts.”
The doctor goes on, “Headaches?”
Xander nods stiffly—with each nod of his head, I fall deeper and deeper into his side while he seems to hold me tighter to him.
“Any irritation?” Matthews won’t stop, and it feels like his questions are a knife scoring down my heart. “Impulsive behaviour? Poor judgement?”
Xander nods again.
