Page 25 of Hero Worship

The door clicked shut behind him with terrible finality.

"I trust you understand the importance of maintaining appropriate training protocols?" Algerone's words were precise as scalpel cuts.

"Nothing inappropriate occurred." My voice was pure steel, matching his tone. Twenty years of law enforcement had taught me how to lie to protect others. "Xander is learning quickly. He'll be ready for the mission."

"About that." He placed a thick file on my desk with surgical precision. "Our surveillance has revealed some... interesting details about how Roche controls their pets."

He spread out several medical reports, shipping manifests for pharmaceutical supplies. "They're using a complex cocktail of drugs. Enough to keep victims compliant without completely compromising cognitive function. But here's what's fascinating..." He tapped one particular document. "Misha Vasiliev has been building a tolerance. Our chemical analysis suggests he's been resisting the effects."

I studied the reports with new interest. "You're saying he's more aware than he appears?"

"Precisely." Algerone's lips curved slightly. "And based on certain... behavioral patterns we've observed, he may be looking for an opportunity to act. The question is whether he'll be an asset or a liability when things go sideways."

The implications shifted my entire tactical assessment. A potential ally on the inside could change everything…ifwe could trust him. If the drugs hadn't broken him completely.

"I trust your team will factor this into your approach?" Algerone's tone made it clear it wasn't really a question.

"Of course, sir." The words felt less bitter now. Maybe we weren't just rushing in to save another victim. Maybe we were providing the opening Misha had been waiting for.

He left without another word, but my mind was already racing with new possibilities. Knowing Misha might be playing his own long game added another layer to our infiltration. We just had to hope his resistance was strong enough to make him an ally rather than a wild card when everything went down.

The moment I was alone, rage erupted. I swept everything off my desk in one violent motion, sending papers and photos scattering. The whiskey glass shattered against the wall, amber liquid bleeding down the expensive wallpaper.

"Fuck!" The word tore from my throat as I braced myself against the desk, chest heaving.

What the hell was wrong with me? I knew better than to dry hump my boss's kid in my office like some animal in heat. Worse, I'd pushed him away afterward, rejected him when he was at his most vulnerable. The hurt in those eyes would haunt me.

I could still taste him on my lips. God, he'd been so perfect, so responsive. And I'd thrown it back in his face.

The sensible part of my brain said this was for the best. Create distance now, before things got more complicated. Before I destroyed us both.

But all I could think about was how he'd looked at me before leaving. How quickly that mask had slammed back into place, hiding the wounded person beneath. I knew his history, knew how abandonment triggered his worst spirals. And I'd just become another person who'd pushed him away.

I grabbed the bottle, not bothering with a glass. The burn of cheap whiskey did nothing to wash away the memory of cherry lip gloss, of desperate sounds swallowed in hungry kisses.

What had I done?

More importantly, what was Xander going to do now? The thought of him alone with that rejection, with his tendency toward self-destruction... Fuck. I should go after him. Should explain.

Instead, I took another drink and stared at the mess I'd made. Of my office. Of my carefully ordered life. Of whatever fragile trust Xander had placed in me.

Some monsters didn't deserve redemption. Maybe I was one of them.

The ketamine hit harderthan I expected, turning my limbs to lead and my thoughts to static. I watched my hands pack the suitcase like they belonged to someone else, trying not to remember the way Ash's fingers had felt against my skin just hours ago. The ketamine made everything feel distant, disconnected, like I was watching a stranger try to fit themselves into shapes that were too rigid, too defined. Sometimes the drugs made it easier to exist in my own body. Sometimes they just made the dysphoria worse.

I'd started using K to quiet my mind back when the BPD diagnosis was still fresh, when every emotion felt like drowningand every rejection like dying. Papa had caught me once, tears streaming down my face as I tried to explain how sometimes existing in my own skin felt impossible. He'd listened as I struggled to articulate feelings I barely understood myself—how some days the mirror showed a stranger, how the labels others gave me felt like chains. He hadn't tried to categorize or explain; he'd just held me while I cried. But he wasn't here now, and Ash's rejection burned worse than any withdrawal.

My hands shook as I put another shirt in the suitcase, the fabric blurring in front of my eyes. I couldn't stop thinking about the heat in his gaze, the way he'd touched me like he owned me before pulling away. Before choosing the mission over what I needed.

Xavier leaned against my doorframe, his expression perfectly controlled as he watched me with those calculating eyes. His fingers tapped a precise rhythm against the wood, the same pattern he used when coding. When taking things apart to see how they worked. Sometimes, Xavier’s detached stare scared the hell out of me.

"Flight's not for six hours," he said, voice clinically neutral. "You don't need to leave yet." His eyes never stopped their methodical assessment, tracking each unsteady movement like he was updating some internal database of my behaviors. "It's barely past midnight."

I wasn't sure of anything anymore. The ketamine had started to take full effect. My limbs felt like they were made of rubber, and the world around me was blurring into soft edges. But even through the haze, I could feel Xavier's focus sharpen. Could feel him categorizing my responses, filing away each detail for future reference. For future control.

Paris wasn't real to me anymore. The mission wasn't real. Nothing felt real except the ghost of Ash's touch on my skin and the crushing weight of his rejection. I kept stuffing clothesinto the suitcase, but the task felt like a formality, like I was pretending to care. My phone buzzed on the bed. Probably Algerone checking to make sure I'd be there. I didn't care.

I slammed the suitcase shut with more force than necessary, nearly toppling over with the momentum. Everything felt wrong, like my skin was too tight, like I was coming apart at the seams. The ketamine wasn't enough. Nothing was enough to make this stop hurting.

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