CHAPTER TEN

WORKING WEEKENDS WERE A BLESSING, Brand thought. Without them, he thought young Master Ashton might have paced a hole right through the floor of the estate.

Instead he flung himself around the office all weekend; even though most of Harrington Steel’s business partners were closed for the weekend, Ashton took the time to catch up on paperwork, grill Brand on the intricacies of contract law, continuously Google everything he could find on New York labor unions. Brand rather admired his dedication.

Even if he knew it was only a distraction, waiting for that Monday phone call.

Brand let his young Master take what distractions he could, and only stopped him to remind him to eat.

And when Ashton fell asleep over his desk every night, working himself into a weary haze well into the evening…

Brand said nothing, as he bundled his young Master into the car, drove him home, and put him to bed.

Then stayed, when Ashton curled slim fingers in the leg of his slacks and tugged and murmured a wordless plea in a sleepy slur that asked for Brand’s presence, nothing else.

A presence Brand was content to provide, slipping off to sleep with the slender, fragile form of his emotionally exhausted young Master in his arms.

How strange, that he should settle so easily into this.

But this, too, was part and parcel of being needed.

MONDAY CAME WITHOUT FANFARE, WITHOUT any grand portent of a shimmering dawn or a brilliant and thunderous storm to warn of either good or bad news. There was only a gray and leaden sky, dull and neutral and flat, as flat as the empty exhaustion leaving Ash feeling like a hollow shell, barely remembering to move.

He couldn’t get anything done that morning. He just stared dully at the screen of his laptop; information wasn’t going in. Brand watched him over the top of his own laptop, but he didn’t think he could stand it if Brand asked anything of him right now; he was grateful when the man let him have his silence. Every time the desk phone buzzed, Ash jumped—but he couldn’t bring himself to answer it. Every call that wasn’t Dr. Singh tempted him to scream, and he couldn’t afford to lose it on a contractor or an overseas supplier just because they weren’t who he wanted to hear. Brand fielded each call smoothly, answering inquiries and setting appointments and so many mundane things that just…didn’t seem to matter anymore.

But when Ash’s cellphone buzzed, he nearly rocketed out of his chair, heart plummeting. He sat up, sat down, fumbled for his phone, nearly dropped it, then managed to catch the call and gasp, “Hello?”

“Ash?”

He knew before Dr. Singh said it what the answer would be. It was in her voice, that careful lilt that said she was preparing to deliver the worst news possible. Still he held out hope, even as she continued,

“I’m sorry. There’s no easy way to say this.”

The lump of bitterness in his throat threatened to choke him. He closed his eyes, slumping forward. “I’m not a match, am I.”

“No, darling. You’re not.”

“Of course,” Ash said hollowly. “Thank you, Dr. Singh.”

“Ash…darling, if you’d like I can refer you to a good grief counsel—”

Ash ended the call. Dropped the phone.

And with a harsh sound rising up his throat as if it had been ripped from the bowels of his pain, he flung himself against Brand, nearly knocking the man out of his chair.

Brand made a startled sound, rocking back, then gathered him up—pulling Ash entirely into his lap, curling forward, wrapping around him.

“I know,” Brand murmured, rubbing one soothing palm over Ash’s back. “I know, young Master. I’m sorry.”

Ash said nothing. He only spent himself out in frustrated, furious tears, full-body sobs that racked him like a storm. He didn’t know who he was more angry with—Dr. Singh for the news, his father for being ill, himself for being incompatible. He shouldn’t even be so fucking frustrated; it didn’t change anything.

But that was the problem. It didn’t change anything.

Ash was just as powerless as he’d been before. He’d always been powerless.

It had just never hurt this much, or cut this deep.

EVEN THOUGH ALL ASH WANTED to do was go home, curl up in bed, and cling to Brand until it didn’t hurt so much…he made himself stay at the office. Made himself do something where he wasn’t useless, wasn’t powerless; if he couldn’t help his father one way he’d help him another way, and do everything he could to get it right.

If he was struggling to understand import tax and delving into the legal structures of Harrington Steel’s overseas entities, at least, he wasn’t thinking about how fucking useless he was.

He was ready to pass out, by the time Brand touched his shoulder, then trailed up to curl his knuckles against Ash’s throat. “Young Master. You are asleep on your feet. We should depart.”

“Sure,” Ash mumbled numbly, pushing to his feet—but then closing the laptop, unplugging it, and tucking it under his arm. “I can finish this at home.”

He didn’t miss Brand’s worried look, but neither of them spoke. The silence was almost tense, as they closed up the office and headed down to the car. Ash settled in the back of the Mercedes and opened the laptop again, pulling up a page he’d saved on tax calculations in Germany, but he couldn’t really focus on the information. He didn’t know where his mind was; skirting around his father, drifting onto Brand, wanting to just…drop everything and disappear into the Himalayas to become a mountain goat farmer. He had a hollow burned-out feeling behind his eyes, and his brain felt like every neuron was short-circuiting in a haze of smoke each time it tried to spark a thought.

“You are thinking something, young Master.”

Ash pulled from his thoughts and glanced at Brand in the rear view mirror. He offered a small smile. “You’ve known me a week and you can read me that well?”

“I tend to pay close attention.”

Ash shrugged, looking away and out the window. “The answer’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? I wanted to do something, and I…” He creased his lips. “Even though I tried, I was useless.”

“You cannot control your genetics,” Brand pointed out. “Even if he is your father, there was always a fifty percent chance that you would not match. That’s not your fault, Ashton.”

Isn’t it?

“It’s like I was born to be useless.”

“No,” Brand said firmly. “Not at all. I know many expectations have been placed on you at a very young age, but not one of those expectations was to play God.”

“I just want to do something,” Ash threw back, clenching his fists in frustration. “He’s back now, but for how long?”

That steady green gaze in the mirror faltered, sliding back to the road. “I don’t know, Ashton.”

“…Brand?”

“Yes?”

“Who am I, other than the son of Calvin Harrington?” Ash pleaded. It felt selfish, to wonder that—but that, too, was part of what was frightening him, twisting up inside him in confused and tangled knots. “I feel like I don’t know that, and once he’s gone…I won’t even be that anymore. It’s like I never got the chance to find out. I couldn’t want anything that would make me someone else, because I had to leave room to be the next in line. So I made myself a blank state. A carbon copy of a reckless college student. I even majored in business instead of something I might really want, because…” He struggled for words, staring down at his knees. At the crisp starched suit that was better suited for his father than for himself. “Because I knew who I had to be. So I didn’t bother trying to be anyone else.”

“…young Master.” A touch of soft understanding in Brand’s voice. “Do you resent your father, for shaping you in this image and then leaving you behind?”

“Yes!” It came out of him in a frustrated cry, before he pulled himself back, rubbing at the ache in his chest. “Is that awful? That I’m mad at him for putting me in this position and then leaving me like it’s nothing? Am I being selfish?”

“Grief is inherently selfish, when those we grieve aren’t here to benefit from it. That doesn’t make that selfishness wrong, my young Master.”

Ash didn’t realize they were home until the car was stopping. Brand got out without giving him a chance to answer, rounding the car to open Ash’s door—but rather than guide him out, he slid in with Ash, crowding him over just enough to make room…and then pulling him into his arms. Pulling him exactly where he needed to be, without making Ash ask for it. Ash went to him willingly, burrowing himself into that solid, reassuring warmth.

“If you need to be selfish to make this easier to deal with,” Brand murmured, the rumble of his voice rolling through Ash, “then be selfish. If that means seeking something for yourself, do so. Is there nothing you’ve ever been curious about? Anything you like, that you could see yourself loving?”

Ash slipped his arms around Brand’s shoulders, clinging, and buried his face against his chest. “…what does it matter, when I only have time to be CEO of Harrington Steel?”

“It will not always be that way,” Brand promised. “The current period of instability will not last forever. Once that is settled…” He rested his chin to the top of Ash’s head, a comforting weight that made him feel enclosed, enveloped. “You don’t have to be your father, young Master. Estranged from all but the company. You can find room to find yourself.”

“I don’t even know what that means. Finding myself.”

“It means trying everything until you find the thing that suits.”

Ash didn’t even know where to start. With the life he’d lived before this, jet-setting around, he’d done everything from cliff-diving in the Yucatan to drunken shots off a supermodel’s abs in Milan…but it was all just part of the party scene, ridiculous things people did when they were drunk and obscenely rich and giving in to peer pressure. He couldn’t think of a time when he’d done something just because it had caught his interest, and he was curious about pursuing it.

“Horseback riding,” he realized, remembering a vague thought so old it likely belonged to childhood. “I’ve always wanted to try horseback riding. Maybe having my own stables. Breeding horses.”

“Then we shall begin lessons next weekend,” Brand said promptly.

“You know how to ride?”

“I am a man of many talents, young Master Ashton.”

Despite himself, Ash laughed helplessly, the tightness inside him easing enough to let him breathe. “I think I’m figuring that out.”

Brand’s quiet chuckle echoed him, before capable hands nudged him gently. “Come. We can continue this conversation inside. Preferably in bed.”

Ash let himself be gently manhandled out of the car—but then stopped, glancing at the house and then back at the car, before looking up at Brand. He didn’t want to take this to bed with them…and tonight he’d rather be with Brand than wallowing in this helpless ache. For all that they’d agreed to be lovers, there’d been nothing since that night but a few kisses and light touches before falling asleep together. And it had been sweet, and right, and comforting, and good. But tonight, if Brand wanted to...

Ash wanted more.

But not until he’d cleared his head, and could come to bed without this third presence standing between them.

He smiled faintly. “Hey. Give me the keys and go in without me?”

With a frown, Brand offered the keyring. “Whatever for?”

“I just want to go for a quick drive. Take the Mercedes around the block to clear my head.” He found it in him to grin. “Promise no running off to fuck rich jocks.”

If Brand found that at all amusing, his flat glance gave no indication. “I didn’t even know you had a driver’s license.”

“You can’t learn everything about me from the tabloids, Brand.”

An odd stillness went through Brand. He tilted his head, regarding Ash intently. “If I wanted to know more than the tabloids tell, would you let me?”

Brand seemed to be asking more than that simple question—but Ash couldn’t tell what. Some part of him was afraid to find out, when he might be useless there, as well. Helpless. Pointless.

He lowered his eyes. “I don’t know,” he murmured.

“Ah.” He glanced up to find Brand bowing. “Shall I wait for you in your chambers, then?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Very well, young Master.”

Ash said nothing. They stood in silence for long moments, Brand watching him in that strange way he had that made Ash feel like Brand was gravity and Ash was caught in his well…before Brand turned around and walked into the house, leaving Ash standing alone next to the Mercedes, keys dangling limply from his fingers.

SOMETHING IN BRAND WARNED HIM not to let Ashton go.

He stood in the front window of the house and watched the Mercedes pull away with Ash behind the wheel. It was almost midnight, and Ash was so clearly weary to the bone. Even if Brand wanted to respect his young Master’s need to be alone, he wasn’t sure if he should be out driving right now. But it was too late to stop him; Brand almost wished Amiko would materialize out of nowhere to tell him what to do about her son, with his fragile emotions and sudden whims—but this late at night she was likely bedded down either in her suite or in Calvin Harrington’s. Brand held himself stiffly still, fighting the urge to do something inadvisable without anyone here to stop him.

And then pushed himself into motion, bloody well stepping outside to do it anyway.

Several other cars were parked in the locking garage, including Amiko’s rented Prius, their keys hanging on a ring just inside the door. Brand selected a quiet late-model black Ford sedan, slipped in behind the wheel, and only waited long enough for the automated garage door to open halfway before he sent the Ford rolling out into the night.

He’d just circle the block. Keep a safe distance; Ash never needed to know Brand was following him. He didn’t know why it was so urgent; this wasn’t that possessive need, but something darker, ramping his pulse up and tingling at him with a wash of premonition so dire it could only be pointless paranoia, set on high alert when his own emotions, he was discovering, could be just as fragile as Ashton’s.

At least where Ashton himself was concerned.

There was no sign of the Mercedes, when Brand turned onto the main road. Ashton had a bit of a head start; he might have also gone in the opposite direction. Brand would take a circle around, and if he saw nothing to be concerned over he would go back to the house and just…wait.

Yet he wasn’t as far behind as he’d thought; as he guided the Ford through the winding suburban roadways, he caught tail lights up ahead, their configuration familiar, slowing at a stoplight. Brand slowed as well, keeping his distance, waiting for the light to change before he accelerated. The Mercedes pulled forward carefully as the light switched green.

And in a crunching of metal, a screaming of tires, another car came careening through the intersection and slammed right into it.

If Ash had been going a single notch faster, the Mercedes would have been T-boned. Instead the car—a flashy red truck, that was all Brand saw—slammed into the nose of the Mercedes, spinning it to the side and not even slowing down as it kept streaking past, weaving drunkenly. The Mercedes skewed wildly, then skidded to a halt. Brand’s heart stopped, then leaped forward, charging ahead as quickly as the Ford as Brand slammed down on the accelerator.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but let the icy fear in his veins propel him forward.

He barely let the Ford slew to a halt before he was out of it and pelting toward the Mercedes. The hood was crumpled, smoke emerging from beneath its buckled arch; he saw no sign of movement from inside. The window had cracked, but not so much that he couldn’t see the motionless form slumped over the steering wheel, dangling by the seatbelt.

The world receded into a distant hollow numbness rushing down a long tunnel. He was dimly aware of his own voice echoing in that tunnel, crying Ashton, Ashton, Ashton, but he was disconnected from his own words, his own thoughts, his own movements even as he ripped the door open and reached inside, fumbling for the release on the seatbelt. Ash tumbled out and into his arms, motionless, this small and pathetic bundle turned hollow by the absence of the bright, sweet life that made him so animated, so engaging.

Chest so tight it was ready to snap, Brand fumbled for his young Master’s collar, his throat—his pulse. Oh God, he had a pulse, he was unconscious but alive. Brand let out a harsh, aching sound of relief, ripping painfully from his throat, then made himself remember practicality. His phone in his pocket. 911, the operator crisp and professional and doing nothing to soothe him even as he gave the intersection and Ash’s condition. He barely gave her time to confirm before he let the phone fall from numb fingers so he could curl those fingers around Ash, cradling him close.

“Please,” he whispered, bowing over Ash, as if he could wrap himself around his young Master and make himself the glue to hold him together. “Ashton, my young Master…oh God, please.”