Page 13 of Brutal Prince

When I touch his shoulder, he flinches away from my touch.

“Old man still here?” I whisper.

“No. Got picked up a few minutes ago.”

I let out a long breath and work my shoulders while I wait for Marcus to gather himself.

Sometimes it takes minutes. Sometimes days. It all depends on how empty the whiskey bottle was before Marcus’s father came to find him.

“You said you’d get out the next time he was here.”

I know I shouldn’t be blaming Marcus for any of this, but if he could have avoided another—

“I was asleep,” Marcus croaks. “Smoked too much, knocked me out.”

“Shit,” I mutter, and rake my fingers through my hair. “Is it bad? Do you need ice or something?”

“I need a fucking drink.” Marcus shifts, pauses, pushes up into a sit. His head is low, chin to his chest, as if it’s too heavy to keep up. “Bring me a bottle.”

“Marcus—”

“Please.” This time, he pushes the words through his teeth.

“All right, man. All right.” I stand and leave his room, closing the door partway behind me. I move quickly, but I’m not fast enough. I hear Marcus let out a tortured sob, and my jaw clenches so tight, the scratch on my cheek starts to throb. I finger it gently as I make for the stairs, grimacing at myself.

Can’t believe that little stray cut me.

I jog downstairs and head into the mansion’s large den. This room always reeks of cigarettes and whiskey, but it’s a stench I’ve gotten used to over the years.

There’s a laptop on the desk, but it’s closed. An empty crystal tumbler, an ashtray with a few cigarette butts inside. Evidence of Marcus’s father being home.

But for how long?

Just like my dad, Marcus’s father is away from home more often than not. You’d think he’d be happy to see his son, but all he does when he’s in Lavish is drink, beat up Marcus, and then go out on ‘business meetings’ until the small hours of the morning.

There’s a wet bar against one wall. I grab the bottle of vodka from it, not bothering with glasses.

I linger for a few seconds, mentally preparing myself to go upstairs, and giving Marcus enough time to pull himself together.

When I get back to him, he’s standing by the window, staring out at his garden as he leans against the wall. I hand him the vodka and he takes it silently by the neck.

His Adam’s apple slides up and down as he gulps vodka straight from the bottle. I can’t see a single bruise on him, but that’s one of his father’s specialties — he never leaves a mark that his kid can’t cover with his school clothes.

“Break anything this time?” I ask.

Marcus shakes his head. “Got a call. Had to leave.” Then he glances at me, his dark eyes black in the low light. “Roof?”

I nod, and trail him out of his room. He walks with stiff legs and a straight back, as if his ribs are sore.

He should fight back next time.

He should tell the police, social services, something.

But we’ve been through all of this, time and time again. It’s a never-ending cycle. Come morning, Marcus is always under the impression he somehow deserved the beating.

A low grade on a paper.

Fumbling a pass at the game.

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