Page 10 of Hero Worship

At seven-twelve, the door finally opened. Xander stumbled in looking thoroughly debauched, their designer clothes rumpled, makeup smeared and… Christ, was that a fucking hickey on their neck? Something dark and possessive roared to life in my chest, an urge to hunt down whoever had marked him tear them apart with my bare hands. The way they carried themself, even disheveled, spoke of their martial arts training, but right now, that ability was overshadowed by whatever poor decisions they'd made last night.

"You're late," I growled, my voice pitched low and dangerous.

Xander pushed his sunglasses up, revealing bloodshot eyes that tried too hard to look defiant. "Sorry, Daddy. Traffic was a bitch."

Their eyes met mine, exhibiting that familiar pattern of challenge and desperate need for validation that came with BPD. They were testing boundaries again, seeing if I'd reject them like others had. Not fucking likely. I'd been reading up on how to handle their rapid mood shifts, how to provide the structure they craved while letting them maintain their autonomy.

I crossed the space between us in three long strides, ignoring the protest from my knee. This close, I could smell alcohol and strange cologne on him. Could see the desperate need for validation warring with self-destruction in those too-bright eyes.

“Let's get one thing straight,' I said, crowding into their space until they had to tilt their head back to maintain eye contact.“I'm not one of your little conquest daddies who'll let you act out because you look pretty in lace and eyeliner. When I give you an order, you fucking follow it. No excuses.”

A flash of real fear crossed his face before that practiced mask slipped back into place. "Or what?" he challenged, but his pulse was hammering in his throat. "You gonna punish me?"

Christ. The way he said it—half hopeful, half terrified… What the fuck was I supposed to do with that?

"Fifty push-ups," I barked instead, forcing my hands to stay at my sides. "Now."

He hesitated just long enough to make it clear he was choosing to obey rather than being forced. Then he dropped, assuming the position with a grace that spoke of years of training. I watched his form critically, looking for signs of the hangover I knew he was fighting.

"Chest to the ground," I ordered, setting my cane aside so I could crouch next to him. The movement sent daggers through my knee, but I ignored them. "I want to see the floor kiss you on every rep."

A shiver ran through him at my words. Interesting. I filed that reaction away for later analysis as I watched him struggle through the first ten reps. His form was good, too good for someone who'd clearly been out partying all night. The kid had real talent buried under all that chaos.

By rep thirty, their arms were shaking. Sweat darkened their shirt, plastering it to lean muscle built from years of competitive fighting. I could see him pushing through it, the same determination that had won them those tournament medals now focused on proving something to me. That kind of intensity was rare, exactly what the organization needed, if I could channel it properly.

Something dark and hungry stirred in my chest as I watched him suffer through the last few reps. The part of me that hadinherited my father's capacity for cruelty wanted to push him harder, to see how far he'd go to prove himself. But the urge to protect, to guide, to shape him into something stronger was there too.

When he finally collapsed, chest heaving, I gave him exactly ten seconds before nudging him with my cane. "Up. We're just getting started."

The obstacle course I'd designed was brutal, a gauntlet meant to expose weaknesses both physical and psychological. I'd arranged each element to create specific stress points, the kind of challenges that would reveal who someone really was under pressure.

I watched Xander's face as he took it in, catching the emotions that flashed across his features. Fear. Determination. A desperate need to prove himself. All wrapped up in that practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor.

"Show me what you've got," I said gently. Sometimes the carrot worked better than the stick.

They attacked each obstacle like they were trying to prove something, moving with the precision that came from years of tournament fighting. But tournament rules wouldn't matter in the field. He needed to learn to channel that controlled violence into something darker, something more lethal. Their raw talent was obvious. Now they just needed to learn when and how to unleash it.

He paused at the rope swing.

"Problem?" I called out, keeping my voice neutral. This was a test—not just of their physical capabilities, but of how they handled fear.

"Just admiring the view," he shot back, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. Still, he grabbed the rope and launched himself across the gap with more courage than sense.

He barely made the landing, scrambling onto the platform with none of his usual grace. But he'd done it. Faced his fear head-on instead of backing down. Another tick in the positive column.

By the time he finished the course, he was drenched in sweat and trembling with exhaustion. But there was fire in his eyes when he looked at me, silently daring me to find fault with his performance.

"Again," I said simply. "Thirty seconds faster this time."

The look he gave me could have stripped paint. "You're fucking kidding me."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" I stepped closer, using my height advantage to loom over him. "You want to prove you belong here? Show me. Show me you can push past your limits instead of running away to the nearest club when things get hard."

Color flooded his cheeks. Whether it was shame or anger, I couldn't tell. But he turned back to the starting line without another word. Good.

I watched him throw himself at the course again, noting how his form suffered as fatigue set in. The way he favored his right side slightly. The determined set of his jaw even as his hands shook on the climbing wall.

He missed the thirty-second mark by two seconds. Watching him collapse at the finish line stirred complicated emotions. Pride at his determination warred with an almost overwhelming urge to protect. I wanted to push him harder, to test his limits, to see exactly what he was capable of. But I also wanted to gather him close, to shield him from the world that had made him so desperate for validation. The contradiction of those desires reminded me uncomfortably of how my father had "cared" for his assets, pushing them to excellence while maintaining absolute control.

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