Page 61 of Even Beneath the Stars

Candice advances to retrieve it, her movements deliberately slow, like she's trying not to startle a wild animal.

Xavier circles the island, his shoulders rigid as he passes within inches of Barron. He absently scratches his stomach as he continues down the hall, his sweatshirt riding up to reveal a shocking expanse of bruised skin. The mottled blue-black pattern stretches across his ribs like an angry storm cloud. My stomach lurches at the sight—it looks way worse than it did last night.

"Christ," Barron huffs, but there's no concern in his voice, just disgust, like Xavier's injuries are a personal affront to his sensibilities.

Xavier doesn't pause or look back as he disappears into the coat room, leaving behind a silence so thick I could choke on it. I wait for Denise or Candice to stop him—tell him he really shouldn't be going to hockey practice in the state he's in. Point out he hasn't even eaten breakfast. But of course, no one does.

I start lifting from my stool to go after him, then realize I can't leave Finn. Even though there are at least half a dozen grown adults in his home right now, he's my responsibility. Xavier, apparently, is no one's.

Barron's attention suddenly sweeps across the room, as if just remembering we exist. His eyes skip over each of us—Candice still crouched with the ice pack, Denise clutching her tablet, Finn pressed against my leg, and me, probably looking stunned as an electrocuted guppy.

"Well," Barron straightens his already perfect tie. "I'm sorry you all had to be witness to that." His tone suggests mild embarrassment at having to discipline a wayward pet who took a leak on the carpet rather than genuine remorse. Down the hall, the faint sound of the coat room door slamming rattles the lingering tension.

Barron nods his head once in our direction. "I'll leave you all to get on with your day." Then he turns on his heel and strides toward the ornate hallway leading to the East Wing—that mysterious, closed-off, child-less section of the mansion I have even less desire to step foot in now that I've met one half of its' occupants.

The kitchen stays frozen for several heartbeats after Barron's departure. Then Candice releases a long breath, and Denise's shoulders drop from their rigid position. The air feels lighter yet still displaced, like a storm just passed through.

"Christ," Candice mutters, echoing Barron's earlier sentiment but with actual concern in her voice. She returns the ice pack to the freezer.

Finn tugs at my sleeve. "Is Xavy in trouble?" His brown eyes are huge with worry.

"No, buddy." I squeeze his shoulder gently. "Your brother's okay. He just needs to get to practice."

But I can't shake the image of Xavier's carefully blank expression, or the way he absorbed Barron's verbal attacks without flinching. The bruises from the fight will heal, but I wonder about the other kinds of damage—the invisible kind that come from years of conversations like the one we just witnessed. Because the worst bruises don’t show; they echo over and over again in silence.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Xavier

Idrop my unused gear in the coat room, wincing as my ribs protest the movement. The house is quiet, thank God. No squealing Finn, no pink-haired cute nanny giving me concerned looks. Don't have to act fine when no one's watching—and there's almost always someone watching when you're a privileged Rockwell.

My head throbs where my father's words hit harder than any punch from the brawl. Wrong name. Always the wrong fucking name. Because in his world, first names are just placeholders for people he doesn’t care to know. Still, it's kind of amazing how someone can stamp his own name on skylines across the globe—on resorts, hospital wings, corporations—yet can't remember his own son's. Which is doubly humiliating, when there's an audience to witness it. Especially when Maggie LeClair had a front-row seat to my father ripping my pride from my spine, stretching it inside out, and holding it up to the light like some cheap counterfeit.

The kitchen's empty now though—just the lingering scent of whatever Candice made for lunch. Something with rosemary. I grab a Gatorade from the fridge, pressing the cold bottle against my swollen eye. Coach Martinez took one look at me and benched me before I could even suit up. Hard to impress Coach when your right eye’s more swollen than your game stats. Turns out depth perception’s kind of a big deal when you’re chasing a puck at full speed. I wasn't even all that pissed about it, either. No point suiting up when you can’t even see the guy about to check you into next week.

I hold the Gatorade bottle to my swollen eye for a few more seconds before guzzling the contents in a few long squirts, then toss the empty bottle in the recycling bin. There are some homemade cheese stick things in a bin on the counter, so I grab a couple of those and eat them as I make my way upstairs.

I pause at the top of the landing, pressing my palm against my side. Breathing feels like getting stabbed. Still, I'd do it again. Pain fades; loyalty shouldn't. And Dylan needed backup. Those assholes had it coming.

But try explaining loyalty to Barron Rockwell. It’s a foreign concept to a man whose heart is probably locked in a Swiss bank vault. Who probably hasn't had a real friend since high school. And even that's doubtful.

I wonder how Dylan's faring today. Presumably a hell of a lot better than me—he's a seasoned pro at this. Dude has been involved in a bust-up at an average rate of about one a month since he rolled ceremoniously (and begrudgingly) into town. Not once where it wasn't instigated, though. Dylan’s chaos always has a cause—whether it’s worth the stitches afterwards is another story. And yeah, he gets triggered easily, but he's never launched into someone for no reason. And I've witnessed him walk away dozens of times when guys have tried to provoke him, too.

As I pass the upstairs playroom, Finn's high-pitched giggle mingles with Maggie's throaty laugh. It's a sound that could probably melt glaciers—or at least the ice in my chest. My hand instinctively reaches for the door handle, but I let it drop. I'm not up for questions about my face from Finn or about practice from Maggie. Or worse—about the humiliating confrontation with my father at breakfast.

I drag myself to my room, stripping off my hoodie and sweats, then step under the shower's scalding spray. The hot water stings my split lip but helps loosen my muscles. I stay under for twice the time I normally would, then throw on clean sweats and a Henley.

My feet carry me up to the Observatory before my brain catches up. The door creaks open and I inhale the familiar musty-wood smell, late afternoon sun streaming through the glass dome, casting weird shadows across the floor.

As I make my way across to my usual spot, I notice something on top of the pile of cushions by the telescope.

Two packages of Frosted Strawberry Pop-Tarts.

I pick up one of the packages, turning it over in my hands. The corner of my mouth twitches, threatening a smile despite everything.

Dropping onto the cushions, I tear open the silver wrapper. The artificial strawberry scent hits my nose as I break off a piece, not caring about my split lip. The sugar crystals dissolve on my tongue, sweet and familiar and nostalgic.

Something tight loosens in my chest, just a fraction.

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