Ruthless Kings of Obsession (Leighton Royals University #3)

22. Grace In Darkness

Grace In Darkness

~ Z ANDER~

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."

"Life rarely concerns itself with fairness," Father says, but there's a shadow in his eyes that suggests old pain. "Our world – this beautiful, cruel world we oversee – operates on power more than justice. The strong make rules that the weak must follow."

I watch the sun paint golden streaks across chrome and glass buildings, thinking about power and rules and brothers who aren't allowed to be brothers. "Then I'll make new rules," I declare with childish certainty. "When I'm in charge, I'll make them accept Keir too."

That rare, real smile returns to Father's face. "And that, my boy, is exactly why you're the heir." His hand rests on my shoulder, warm and solid. "Because you understand that true power isn't just about maintaining the old order – it's about knowing when and how to change it."

"Mother says I'm too kind," I mumble, remembering her concerned frowns when I show mercy to servants who make mistakes. "That kindness is weakness in our world."

"Your mother," Father says carefully, "has seen how kindness can be weaponized against those who show it too freely. But she's only partly right." He turns to face me fully, making sure he has my complete attention. "It's okay to be kind, Zander. Just like it's okay to fall in love, to care deeply, to want to protect people. But you must be selective about who sees those parts of you. In our world, displaying such emotions too openly is like handling roses without gloves – sooner or later, you'll get cut."

"What if..." I swallow hard, voicing a fear I've carried since overhearing conversations about rival families using loved ones as leverage. "What if someone tries to use it against me? Being kind or... or loving someone?"

"Then you show them grace," he says simply.

My nose wrinkles in confusion. "That sounds dumb."

His laugh booms across the hilltop, making Mother and Katherine look up briefly before returning to their flower gathering. "Oh, it probably does," he agrees, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Until the opportunity comes where you can return their grace in blood."

The words should shock me, should frighten me, but instead they feel right – like puzzle pieces clicking into place. "Is that what being a Benedict means? Being kind until kindness doesn't work anymore?"

"Being a Benedict," he says slowly, gesturing at the city spread below us like a kingdom waiting to be claimed, "means understanding that true power comes from balance. We rise above others not just through force or wealth, but through knowing exactly when to show mercy and when to withhold it." His expression grows more serious. "The Benedicts will continue to rise, son. And when I'm gone, I trust you won't fail in maintaining that balance."

I follow his gaze across the urban landscape, seeing it differently now – not just beauty and cruelty existing separately, but intertwined like rose stems and thorns. "I won't fail you, Father."

His arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close as the sun begins its descent toward the horizon. "I know you won't. You'll make mistakes – we all do. You'll trust the wrong people sometimes, show mercy when you should show steel. But you'll learn from each error, grow stronger from each betrayal."

The golden light makes everything seem magical, transforming the city into a place where anything might be possible. Where rules could be rewritten, where half-brothers might someday stand as equals, where kindness and cruelty could dance together without destroying each other.

"And Zander?" Father's voice grows softer, meant only for me. "When you do find people worthy of your kindness, worthy of your love – protect them with everything you have. Because those connections, those real bonds that go beyond business and blood? They're rarer than any wealth we possess."

The memory fades as present pain reasserts itself, sharp enough to cut through even the strongest medication. Each breath feels like pushing against concrete, reminding me that Domino's bullets found their marks with deadly accuracy.

But I'm alive.

Somehow, against all odds, death looked at me bleeding out in that alley and decided it wasn't my time. Or maybe it wasn't death's decision at all – maybe it was the lessons learned on that sun-drenched hilltop, the understanding that Benedicts rise not just through force but through perfect timing.

Even now, I can hear Father's voice: Show them grace... until the opportunity comes where you can return their grace in blood.

A soft sound near the door draws my attention, though turning my head sends fresh waves of agony through my chest. Through blurry vision, I make out a familiar silhouette – silver hair catching hospital lights like moonlight, delicate frame carrying more strength than anyone would guess.

Eva.

My Sweet Dynamite, my perfect match in every broken way. The one person who proved Father right about connections beyond business and blood being our real wealth. Seeing her alive, whole, safe – it makes every bullet worth it.

"Hey stranger," I manage, though the words emerge rough and weak. "Miss me?"

The sob that escapes her breaks my heart more than any physical pain could. But as she moves closer, I see something in her eyes that wasn't there before – a harder edge, a deadlier gleam. My Queen has evolved in my absence, becoming something even more dangerous.

Good , I think as she carefully takes my hand, mindful of IV lines and monitors. Because this cruel, beautiful world of ours is about to learn why you don't separate a King from his Queen. Why you don't test the bonds between people worthy of real love, real protection.

Father was right about balance, about knowing when to show mercy and when to withhold it. But he never said anything about vengeance having to be swift. Sometimes the greatest power comes from patience – from showing grace until the perfect moment arrives to repay it in blood.

And judging by the look in Eva's eyes, that moment is coming soon.

Let them think I'm weakened. Let them believe bullets and betrayal have dulled my edges. They'll learn soon enough that some thorns only grow sharper when they taste blood.

After all, I am my father's son.

And Benedicts always rise.