Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
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.