Page 13 of Hero Worship

"I think you're doing what you always do. You’re using that freaky emotional radar of yours to figure out exactly how to get what you want." I didn't pull away, though. Maybe that was the fucked up part. I knew he was probably manipulating me, and I still needed this. "The question is, what do you want?"

Xavier was quiet for a long moment, his arms still locked around me. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before. "I want my sibling to stop trying to destroy themself. I want you to get help before you do something you can't take back. And yeah, maybe I am using what I know about you to make that happen. But that doesn't make it less true."

The honesty in his voice hit harder than any manipulation could have. Because that was the thing about Xavier—he might be playing emotional chess while the rest of us were playing checkers, but he never used it to hurt us. Not family.

"You know what the worst part is?" I slumped against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "I can't tell what's real anymore. When Valentine looks at me like I'm worth something, is that real, or am I just projecting because I desperately want it to be? When I feel this connection with him, is it genuine or is it just my BPD latching onto another person who could destroy me?"

Xavier's expression softened with understanding. "Maybe both things can be true. Maybe you can have real feelings and still need help managing how intensely you experience them. There's no shame in that."

"Easy for you to say. You've got your empathy thing completely under control."

His laugh was bitter. "You think this is control? Dee, I feel everything. Intensely. It's like drowning in other people's emotions sometimes. The only difference is I've learned to use itinstead of letting it use me. Why do you think I spend so much time gaming?”

“And lighting shit on fire,” I pointed out.

He shrugged and fished out his favorite lighter, not even contesting the point. “They're both predictable, you know? Input equals output. Not like people, where everything's messy and complicated." Xavier struck a small flame and stared into it, eyes losing focus. "At least when something burns, you know exactly why and how. It follows rules." He elbowed me. "You keeping up with your therapist?"

I snorted. "Not really. What am I supposed to tell her? 'Hi, I have attachment issues because my bio dad's a psychopath, but don't worry, my adoptive parents are a gay Russian mob boss and his wife who's married to my other mom who's married to my papa who runs a funeral home, and oh yeah, I have a bunch of nieces and a nephew who technically aren't related to me at all but we'd kill for them anyway'? Should I mention that my brother can read emotions like a fucking supernatural power and uses it to manipulate everyone around him?"

Xavier's lips quirked. "You could leave that last part out. My emotional intelligence is between me and my future therapist, if I ever find one equipped to handle it."

His expression softened as he studied me. "But seriously, Dee. Think about it? For me?"

I nodded, too drained to argue anymore. It was hard to fight against Xavier when he got like this. "Yeah, okay. I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking." He squeezed my shoulder. "Now go get some rest. And a shower. You smell like Valentine's torture chamber."

A weak laugh escaped me. "Fuck you. I smell like victory and determination."

"You smell like sweat and poor life choices." But there was that familiar calculating warmth in his voice, the kind that meant he was already figuring out twelve different ways to help me whether I wanted it or not. "Love you, baby bro."

"Love you too, you manipulative bastard." The words came easier than they usually did. "And I'm only younger by four minutes, asshole."

I watched him disappear upstairs, something tight in my chest finally starting to loosen. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to stop running from the chaos in my head and start figuring out how to live with it instead. And if Xavier wanted to use his weird emotional superpowers to help me get there... well, there were worse things than having a dark empath for a brother.

Maybe it was time to let Valentine see all of me—the beautiful and the broken parts—and trust that he was strong enough to handle both.

But that was tomorrow's problem. Right now, I just needed to shower, sleep, and try not to think about Valentine's voice sexy, gravelly voice ordering me around.

One day at a time, right?

Right.

The house was silentwhen I stepped inside, but silence had stopped being peaceful years ago. Now it just reminded me of interview rooms where killers confessed their darkest urges. Of the quiet after my father was arrested, when the enormity of his crimes had settled over our family like a shroud. Twenty years of hunting monsters, and here I was, fighting my father's poisonous legacy.

My knee screamed as I made my way to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. The bullet that had ended my field career had done more than shatter bone. It had stripped away the badge I'd used to separate myself from men like my father. Now I wasworking for Algerone fucking Caisse-Etremont, training his son to be exactly the kind of weapon I'd sworn to stop.

The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd once sat in a courtroom watching my father explain how he'd "shaped" my mother into the perfect partner. How he'd recognized her potential for brutality and carefully cultivated it until she was as deadly as he was. I'd spent my entire career proving I wasn't like him, that I could use my insight into human behavior for justice instead of control.

But watching Xander during training, seeing how perfectly he responded to my commands, how desperately he craved my approval... The satisfaction I felt was uncomfortably familiar. My father had talked about my mother the same way, like she was clay to be molded, a weapon to be honed. My father's fortune had been built on that kind of manipulation. Blood money earned through breaking people down and rebuilding them into weapons.

I knocked back another drink, remembering the case files I'd studied during my father's trial. The careful documentation of how he'd selected his targets, all of them beautiful, broken people desperate for validation. People like Xander, who wore their damage like armor but craved someone strong enough to see past their defenses. My father had called it "cultivation." The FBI called it grooming.

The whiskey burned going down, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in my head. Today's training session had cracked something open inside me, something I couldn't put back. The way Xander had looked at me after that final run through the obstacle course, exhausted and desperate for validation... Christ. Decades spent interviewing killers had taught me to recognize hunger when I saw it. But the hunger in those eyes? That wasn't the kind I was trained to profile. That was the kind that made me want to devour him whole, to see just how far that need forapproval went. To own every broken piece of him and make him beg for more.

I reached for my phone, muscle memory taking over. The escort service was on speed dial. It was a habit born from too many nights when the job got under my skin and I needed to lose myself in simple pleasure. Tonight felt different though. Tonight, I felt like I had something to prove. Not to the girls at the service. No. to me. I needed to know for sure who I was, if this thing with Xander was real or not.

The escort service had been my compromise after my second divorce, a way to satisfy my needs without risking a real connection. These women understood boundaries, knew exactly what they were offering and what they weren't. It was safe. Controlled. Everything my growing obsession with Xander wasn't.

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