Page 65 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

But that's a problem for another hour. Right now, in this quiet moment between chaos and catastrophe, we can pretend we're just brothers watching over each other's sleep.

Even if we all know better.

Even if we can already smell smoke on the horizon.

Grace In Darkness

~ZANDER~

White.

Stark, clinical white stretches endlessly above me, broken only by hairline cracks in the ceiling tiles that my mind tries to connect into meaningful patterns. The steady beep of medical equipment provides a metronomic backdrop to my scattered thoughts, each sound marking another moment of borrowed time.

I should be dead.

That thought emerges with crystal clarity through the haze of what must be extremely potent painkillers. The memory of rain-slicked concrete pressing against my back, of blood spreading warm then cold across my chest, of darkness creeping in from the edges while Eva was taken from me – it all feels simultaneously distant and razor-sharp.

But death, it seems, wasn't quite ready for me.

Instead of endless void, my consciousness had drifted into memories – specifically, one sun-drenched afternoon that I hadn't thought about in years. The recollection unfolds like a flower opening its petals, each detail impossibly vivid:

I'm eight years old, sitting beside Father on the crest of Benedict Hill. The private helicopter that brought us here sits gleaming in the distance, its blades still occasionally catching the summer sunlight. Below us, Mother and Katherine play near the picnic blanket, my sister's laughter carrying up the slope like wind chimes.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Father's voice carries that quiet authority I've always tried to emulate. His custom suit looks perfectly pressed despite our flight and hike, not a single silver hair out of place. "Like a painting God himself decided to show off."

The city spreads before us like a jeweled tapestry – glass towers catching the late afternoon sun, streets forming intricate patterns, tiny cars moving like ants along carefully planned routes. From up here, everything looks orderly, peaceful, perfect.

"But it's not really beautiful," my young voice carries doubt I wouldn't dare show now. "Not when you look closer."

Father's eyebrow raises slightly, interest sparking in eyes that match my forest green exactly. "Oh? And why do you say that, son?"

I fidget with the sleeve of my miniature suit jacket, choosing words carefully even then. "Because... because I've seen what happens down there. The fighting. The stealing. The way people hurt each other just because they can." My fingers find a loose thread, playing with it nervously. "How can something be beautiful and cruel at the same time?"

A smile plays at Father's lips – not his public smile that never reaches his eyes, but the real one he saves for family. "Have you ever seen a rose garden, Zander?"

The apparent non sequitur makes me frown. "Of course. Mother grows them."

"And what happens if you grab one carelessly?"

"You get hurt," I answer immediately, remembering the sting of thorns. "The thorns cut you."

"Yet people still call roses beautiful, don't they?" His voice takes on that teaching tone I've come to associate with important lessons. "They paint them, write poems about them, give them to people they love. The thorns don't make them any less beautiful – they're part of what makes the rose what it is."

I consider this, watching a flock of birds wheel through the golden sky. "So... the city is like a rose? Beautiful but dangerous?"

His laugh is rich and genuine – a sound few outside our family ever hear. "The whole world is like that, son. Beauty and cruelty exist together everywhere. The trick is learning to appreciate one without letting the other destroy you."

"Is that why I'm the heir?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Because I understand both parts?"

The laughter fades from his face, replaced by something more contemplative. Below us, Katherine's voice carries up the hill as she shows Mother some wildflowers she's found. The helicopter's metal still pings occasionally as it cools, marking time in metallic heartbeats.

"You're the heir," he says finally, "because you have the capacity for both great kindness and necessary cruelty. Because you understand that sometimes we must be thorns to protect what's beautiful."

"But what about Keir?" The name feels strange on my tongue – we rarely speak of my half-brother, the shadow that haunts our family's edges. "He's older. Shouldn't he...?"

"Ah." Father's expression grows complicated, like storm clouds gathering on a sunny day. "Keir is... different. Society has rules, you see. Expectations. They'll accept you because your blood is pure Benedict, traced through generations of carefully maintained lines. But Keir..."

"Because his mother was a maid," I finish quietly, repeating gossip I've overheard from household staff. "But that's not fair. He's still your son."

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