Page 20 of Hero Worship

The words hit too close to home. I shoved away from him. "Clean up and get changed. We're done for today."

His laugh followed me out of the range, knowing and triumphant. "Whatever you say, Daddy. Whatever you say."

I made it halfway to my office before realizing I'd left my holster in the locker room. Stupid. Careless. The kind of rookie mistake I never made. But Xander had a way of making me forget every procedure, every protocol I'd spent twenty years perfecting.

The smart thing would be to wait. Come back after he was done. But the image of him handling that gun, those black-painted nails against metal, wouldn't leave my mind. Before I could talk myself out of it, I was heading back down.

Steam billowed from the shower area as I entered the locker room. The sound of water hitting tile echoed off concrete walls, along with... Christ. Was he humming "Cherry Pie"?

My holster sat on the bench exactly where I'd left it. All I had to do was grab it and go. Simple. Professional.

Then Xander stepped out of the steam cloud, completely naked and glistening wet.

I froze, breath catching in my throat. Water ran in rivulets down his lean body, tracing paths I wanted to follow with my tongue. His skin was marble-pale except for a scattering of faded scars.

He moved with that seductive sway of the hips Zara had been cultivating, all controlled power wrapped in a deceptively delicate package. My eyes tracked a water droplet as it slid down his chest, past the sharp cut of his hip, down to...

Fuck.

"See something you like, Daddy?"

I jerked my gaze up to find him watching me through the steam, a knowing smirk playing on those sinful lips. He hadn't bothered to cover himself. Instead, he stretched, giving me a perfect view of everything I shouldn't want.

"I forgot my holster," I managed, voice rough.

"Mmhmm." He turned slowly, giving me a view of his back, his ass, the elegant line of his spine. "That why you're standing there staring?"

Heat flooded my face. I should leave, but my feet seemed rooted to the spot as he sauntered closer, water dripping from his hair.

"You know," he purred, stopping just out of reach, "most men would have done something by now. Touched. Taken. But not you..." His eyes raked over me, hungry and knowing. "You just watch. Calculate. Control yourself."

"This isn't—" My voice cracked as he stretched again, all lean muscle and invitation. "This isn't appropriate."

His laugh was pure sin. "Nothing about us is appropriate, Daddy. That's what makes it fun." He reached for a towel, the movement pure performance art. "But don't worry. Your secret's safe with me. For now."

I grabbed my holster and fled before I did something stupid like push him up against the lockers and find out if his skin tasted as good as it looked. His laughter followed me down the hall, knowing and triumphant.

Christ. I was so fucked.

I sprawled across mybed, every muscle screaming from Ash's brutal training session, but the pain felt right. Felt real. The kind of anchoring sensation I desperately needed when my thoughts started racing too fast to catch. Paris. The fucking City of Light. And I was going there with Ash Valentine.

My skin felt too tight, electricity crackling just beneath the surface. I couldn't tell if I was flying high or falling down, but at least the chaos in my head had focus now. Purpose. A mission. More than that—a chance to prove myself. To show Ash, to show everyone, that I wasn't just Algerone's broken toy or the Laskins' troubled child.

The familiar spiral started, my brain already spinning fantasies of what could be. Ash and I sharing a hotel room, forced into close quarters. The way he'd look at me when I emerged from the shower in nothing but steam and a smile. How he'd try to maintain that iron control of his until it finally snapped and he—

No. Stop.

I pressed my face into the cool cotton of my pillowcase, trying to ground myself in the sensation. I couldn't afford to get lost in those fantasies right now. Couldn't let myself build Ash up into something he wasn't, couldn't start planning our tragic romance before it even began. My therapist would be so proud of me recognizing the pattern. Less proud of how I was probably going to ignore her advice and dive headfirst into it anyway.

But fuck, the way Ash looked at me during training today... Like he wanted to break me apart and put me back together stronger. He wasn't running away. Not yet, anyway.

My hand slid down my stomach of its own accord, fingertips trailing over the lace edge of my favorite black boy shorts. The fabric felt delicate against my skin, a reminder that I could be both dangerous and beautiful. That femininity could be armor just as much as it could be an invitation.

Growing up different—genderqueer, neurodivergent, too much of everything—had taught me the power of presentation. Papa Yuri never blinked when I started experimenting with makeup, and Mom just smiled and taught me how to do a perfect cat-eye. Even Shepherd, with all his alters' different opinions on everything, just shrugged and said presentation was performance and performance was power.

But Algerone? God, the way his jaw clenched every time I showed up to training in crop tops and painted nails. Like his precious heir was some kind of deviation that needed correcting. Well, fuck him. I'd earned every scar, every victory, every scrapof confidence it took to be exactly who I was. My love of makeup wasn’t a weakness. It was war paint.

My body responded instantly to the memories of training, to thoughts of Ash's hands on me, adjusting my stance with that perfect mix of firmness and control. I needed something to quiet the chaos in my head before it consumed me. The familiar pattern started: want, take, regret, repeat. But I couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop.

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