Page 29 of Hero Worship

"Bed," I decided, scooping him up before he could protest. My knee screamed at the sudden weight, but I ignored it. Some pain was worth bearing. "You need real rest, not just drug-induced unconsciousness."

He nuzzled into my neck as I carried him, breath hot against my skin. "Stay with me?"

I hesitated at the threshold of my bedroom. Since my last divorce, I'd kept this space strictly off-limits for anything beyond quick, meaningless encounters. Sex was one thing. Letting someone stay, letting them sleep beside me? That was something else entirely. Something I hadn't allowed since learning how dangerous real intimacy could be.

But the thought of leaving him alone in this state made something protective and possessive rear up in my chest. "Yeah, baby. I'll stay. Let's get you comfortable." I reached for the hem of his shirt. "Arms up for me."

Xander complied with drowsy grace, lifting his arms like a child. As I peeled the sweat-damp fabric away, my breath caught. I'd seen him half-dressed before, strutting around the training room in crop tops designed to distract. But this was different. Without the carefully crafted presentation, without the armor of perfect makeup and provocative clothing, he was devastating in his vulnerability.

Pale skin stretched over lean muscle, marred here and there by scars I wanted to trace with my tongue. Freckles dusted his shoulders, scattered like stars across marble. My fingers itched to map them, to learn their patterns until I could navigate them blind.

"Beautiful," I breathed, the word escaping before I could catch it. Xander shivered, though whether from the cold or my reverent tone, I couldn't tell.

The waistband of his jeans sat low on sharp hipbones that could cut glass. I hesitated, my hands hovering over the button. "Okay if I...?"

He nodded, eyes heavy-lidded but trusting. God, that trust. It hit me hard every time.

I kept my movements clinical as I helped him shimmy out of the denim, but nothing could have prepared me for what lay beneath. Black lace hugged the curve of his ass, the delicate fabric a stark contrast to the strength in his thighs. I'd seen him in similar underwear before, always as part of his carefully crafted image. But like this—stripped of pretense, vulnerable and soft—the sight made my mouth water.

"You’re gorgeous," I murmured, running a reverent hand down his flank. His skin was silk-smooth under my calloused palm, and he arched into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.

I knew I should stop touching him. He was vulnerable, coming down from drugs, in no state to consent to anything more than basic care. But I couldn't seem to pull my hands away from all that perfect skin.

"Cold," he whimpered, and I snapped out of my daze.

"Let's get you warm then." I grabbed another of my shirts from the dresser, this one soft with age and washing. "Arms up again, sweet thing."

The sight of them drowning in my clothes shot straight to my cock. The hem hit mid-thigh, making him look somehow more naked than they had in just underwear. More mine.

"You too?" He caught my wrist as I moved to step back. "Please? I... I need..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but I understood. The need for skin contact during come down was well-documented. That'swhat this was—medical necessity. Not my own desperate desire to feel him against me.

The buzzing of my phone cut through my thoughts. Algerone's name on the screen made something cold settle in my gut. I extracted myself carefully from Xander's grip, moving to the bathroom where the running water might mask my conversation. This was the part of protection I'd been avoiding: facing the consequences of choosing someone's wellbeing over operational efficiency.

"I trust there's a compelling reason why you’re not on that plane." Algerone's voice was cold, but not angry. Eerily emotionless.

"Xander’s not fit to travel," I said carefully, watching my reflection in the mirror. The man staring back looked more like my father than I wanted to admit. " I made the call to delay twenty-four hours rather than risk compromising the mission."

"I see." The words dripped arctic disdain. "And does this sudden illness have anything to do with his... recreational habits?"

My jaw clenched as I recognized the trap. Of course he knew about the drugs. Probably had people watching us, reporting every detail. The same way my father had monitored my mother's every move under the guise of protection.

"The mission parameters require him to be at his best," I said, instead of acknowledging the accusation. "One day's delay won't impact the timeline significantly."

"You seem to have developed quite the... protective streak toward my son." His voice held that same clinical detachment he used when discussing profit margins. "I trust this won't interfere with operational efficiency?"

The way he said 'my son’ made my hands clench against the sink. Like Xander was just another piece of property tobe managed, their identity another inconvenient detail to be ignored. Another beautiful thing to be controlled and preserved.

"You hired me to handle him," I said, measuring each word carefully. "This is me handling him."

"Indeed." A pause stretched between us, heavy with unspoken threats. "Very well. Twenty-four hours. But Valentine?" His voice dropped lower, colder. "Remember that everything has a price. Even... protection."

The line went dead before I could respond. I stared at my reflection, seeing too much of my father in the possessive set of my jaw, the protective fury in my eyes. But there was a softness too that my father had never shown, a desire to protect without controlling.

When I returned to the bedroom, Xander had curled into the warm spot I'd left, seeking comfort even in sleep. The sight made something fierce and tender war in my chest.

Still, Algerone's warning echoed in my mind as I slipped back into bed. Everything had a price. But watching Xander burrow instinctively into my pillow, trusting me even in his vulnerability, I knew some things were worth any cost.

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