Page 3 of Hero Worship

Then again, who the hell was I now, anyway? A desk jockey with a cane and a drawer full of pain meds. Maybe my moral high ground wasn't worth much these days.

And if the job meant seeing Xander again... well, that was a complication I'd deal with when I had to.

Starting the engine, I cast one last glance at the clinic in my rearview mirror, then hit the gas, leaving the parking lot behind. The card burned in my pocket like a hot shell casing. I wouldn't call him. Not today. But late at night, when the pain kept me awake and the walls of my bedroom closed in... well, that was a different story.

After all, a man could only watch the world burn for so long before he either had to walk away—or pick up a match of his own.

September

I twirled the kalisticks in my hands as I stalked through the training room, my reflection ghosting across the mirrored walls in flashes of bare skin and lethal grace. The crop top and compression shorts weren't exactly what Algerone considered appropriate training gear, but watching him try not to have an aneurysm every time I showed up dressed like a CrossFitstripper was half the fun. The way the fabric hugged my body was its own kind of armor. Emphasis on the body, because honey, you don't spend this many hours training not to show it off. Each carefully chosen piece was a reminder that I could be both deadly and beautiful, that I could make men's heads turn right before I kicked their asses.

The clacking of the sticks against each other reverberated through the cavernous space, a sharp, rhythmic staccato that matched the chaos in my head. Each strike, each block, felt like an electric jolt running through me. On days when my thoughts raced too fast, and my skin felt too tight, the training room was my sanctuary. Just me and the arsenal of gear Algerone had assembled, probably hoping the right combination of weights and weapons could fix his "wayward son". His words, not mine. Algerone didn't seem to get that I wasn't ason. I wasn't a boy or a girl. I existed beyond his binary thinking. I was just Xander.

I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall and slowed, just for a second. My reflection stared back: lean, wiry muscle, taut and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Not to toot my own horn, but I was serving face and body today. Which made it extra hilarious remembering fourteen-year-old me, skinny and uncertain, getting my ass kicked in a national martial arts tournament. God, my fashion choices back then were a crime against humanity, though at least I'd already figured out that eyeliner could be both prettyandpractical for hiding a black eye.

Yuri had found me crying in the locker room afterward, mascara everywhere, like a raccoon having an emotional breakdown. He hadn't even blinked at the makeup or when I'd asked him to use different pronouns. He'd just squeezed my shoulder and said he was proud of me, even though I'd lost. He was the one who taught me that showing up was half the battle.

The memory ached like an old bruise, even if I'd come a long way from that mess of a teenager. Yuri never missed a tournament after that, always front row, always proud, no matter how I placed. He'd been there through everything—the incident with Xion, the years of therapy, my journey to figure out who I really was. Which made it darkly hilarious that Algerone had swooped in last year claiming biological rights, like DNA somehow trumped two decades of actual parenting. Sorry, not sorry, but sperm donation doesn't make you daddy material, especially when your idea of bonding is kidnapping your adult child and trying to reprogram them into your perfect little heir.

The doors to the training room slid open with a soft whoosh, and my heart rate spiked. I tensed, expecting Algerone's cold critique or maybe Xavier coming to drag me to another therapy session. But when I glanced over, my whole body went hot then cold, like I'd been dunked in ice water and set on fire all at once.

Ashley fucking Valentine.

My pulse sped up as I drank in the sight of him. Tall and broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped short and a permanent five o'clock shadow dusting his chiseled jawline. He walked with a slight limp now, favoring his left leg, a souvenir from the bullet he'd taken during his raid on a cannibalistic cult. But damn if that limp didn't make him even sexier somehow, adding to his whole dangerous, world-weary vibe.

He looked more worn than the last time I'd seen him, new lines etched around those storm-gray eyes that had haunted my fantasies for months. But he still carried himself with that same commanding presence that made my knees weak and my borderline personality disorder brain screamdanger-safety-want-runall at once.

I forced myself to keep moving through my forms, pretending I hadn't just been eye-fucking the hell out of him. But it was impossible to ignore the electric thrill that raced through myveins at his presence. The last time I'd seen Valentine, I'd sat across from him in a briefing room while he laid out plans to take down a trafficking ring. I'd called him "daddy" just to watch him squirm, to see if I could crack that professional facade.

He'd given me thislook, like he wanted to bend me over the table and teach me a lesson about respect. It had been the hottest thing I'd ever experienced.

Now here he was in my space, those intense eyes taking in every detail as Algerone showed him around. I watched the way his shirt stretched across his broad chest, the fabric clinging to muscles that spoke of fieldwork rather than gym routines. The way his ass filled out those perfectly tailored slacks. God, he was perfect. Too perfect. The kind of perfect that would see right through my defenses and run screaming. Or worse, stay just long enough to make me believe in forever before walking away like everyone else.

My mind whiplashed between wanting to climb him like a tree and wanting to reject me first. Classic borderline bullshit. Either he was going to be my salvation or my destruction, no in-between. My therapist would be having a field day with this one.

No. Bad Xander. This wasn't about getting laid or finding someone to fix my mess of abandonment issues. This was about proving myself. About showing Algerone I was more than just some pawn on a chess board.

But God, the way Valentine moved... like a predator. Like he could throw me down and make me behave with just one look. And wasn't that just the kind of thinking that had my brain floating off into fantasy land? I was already imagining him as either my knight in tactical armor or the next person to add to my abandonment highlight reel.

The familiar pattern flared up: want him, seduce him, make him want me so bad it hurts, then push him away before he can leave first. Rinse and repeat. At least my therapist would beproud I was recognizing the cycle, even if I was probably going to ignore her advice about "healthy boundaries" and "not using sex as a weapon."

Valentine glanced in my direction and our eyes locked. It was like being hit by a bolt of lightning, every nerve ending in my body suddenly alive and screaming for his touch. My lungs seized up, my chest tightening as I drowned in the intensity of those stormy gray eyes. God, he looked at me like he could see right through my perfectly crafted facade to the mess underneath.

I dragged my gaze away before I spontaneously combusted on the spot, trying to act like I wasn't just mentally undressing him while planning our wedding and subsequent messy divorce. I twirled my kali sticks with a bit more flair than necessary, the muscles in my arms flexing as I moved through an elaborate sequence. The fabric of my crop top rode up just enough to show off the abs I'd earned through countless hours of training. I could be deadlyandthirst trap material.

Valentine's eyes tracked my movement, assessing, calculating. But there was something else there too, a heat that had nothing to do with professional evaluation. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his cane when I stretched, and I had to bite back a smile. Score one for the combat Barbie.

I finished my sequence with a showy spin, the kali sticks becoming a blur as I whipped them through the air. Nailed it. Time to see if I could get under Valentine's skin as effectively as he'd gotten under mine. Though honestly? I'd rather have him get under something else entirely. Like my—

No. Focus. I shouldn’t be adding another hot daddy type to my list of questionable life choices. Even if he did look like he could hurt me so good.

Sauntering over to where Algerone and Valentine stood, I plastered on my most provocative grin. "Hey Daddy," I drawled,making sure to pop the 'd' like the insolent brat I was. Let them wonder which one I was talking to. "Fancy seeing you here. Thought you'd be off doing whatever it is rich white guys do when they're not trying to micromanage their offspring's life choices."

Algerone's jaw tightened. "Xander," he greeted, his voice carefully neutral as he pointedly ignored my outfit and attitude. "I see you've been keeping up with your training."

"Well, you know me. Overachiever extraordinaire." I twirled a kali stick, the polished wood reflecting the harsh overhead lights. "Gotta make sure I'm in fighting form for whenever you finally let me in on the super secret mercenary club. Unless this is still about my 'phase'?" I batted my mascaraed lashes at him. "Because honey, two decades is a pretty long phase."

Valentine's lips twitched, like he was suppressing a smirk. I couldn't tell if he was amused by my audacity or just enjoying the way I needled Algerone. Either way, I'd take it as a win. Plus, the way his eyes kept dropping to my bare midriff suggested he was enjoying more than just my witty repartee.

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