Page 59 of Hero Worship

Xaiver hesitated, still glaring at me.

Xander sighed and stepped forward. “X, please. I promise I’ll explain everything over breakfast.”

Xavier's eyes narrowed slightly. "Everything?"

"Everything I can," Xander amended. "There are some operational details I can't share. But..." He gestured at the marks on his throat, at my possessive stance behind him. "The rest? Yeah. You deserve to know."

For a moment, Xavier just studied him. Then he nodded once, sharp and precise. "Thirty minutes. Then I start calling people."

"An hour," Xander countered. "Some of us need time to look presentable."

A ghost of a smile crossed Xavier's face. "Forty-five minutes. And you're paying for breakfast."

"Deal." Xander's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Now get out so I can make myself look less like I spent the morning being mauled by a possessive ex-fed."

"TMI," Xavier muttered. "Forty-five minutes, Dee. Don't make me come back up here."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving us alone with the weight of everything that had just happened. Xander sagged against me, trembling slightly.

"You okay?" I murmured, pressing a kiss to their temple.

"No," they admitted. "But I will be. After coffee. And maybe a Xanax."

I turned them in my arms. "We should get ready. Your brother seems like the type to actually time those forty-five minutes."

"Oh, he definitely is." Xander's smile was shaky, but real. "Though maybe we can multitask in the shower? Save some time?"

"Brat," I growled fondly, already steering him toward the bathroom.

The terrace of Laduréewas exactly the kind of place Xavier would choose for this conversation. Perfect sightlines to all approaches, multiple exit routes, and enough ambient noise from other patrons to make surveillance difficult. He sat with his back to the wall, those dark eyes scanning every face that passed. Just like Papa had taught us.

The familiar mix of vanilla and sugar drifting from the patisserie's kitchen summoned memories of Mom baking in the kitchen, and something in my chest twisted. How many hours had we spent in Mom's kitchen, the three of us perched on counters while she hummed and taught us the importance ofproper folding technique, Papa occasionally interjecting with morbid baking puns that made her roll her eyes fondly?

Xavier's eyes caught my reaction to the scent, because of course they did. Nothing got past him these days. The triplet bond thrummed between us, a constant awareness that had only grown stronger since Xion's episode. Sometimes I wondered if that's why Xavier's empathy had developed the way it had, like his brain had rewired itself to prevent another breakdown from blindsiding us.

Xavier had always been fascinated by how I moved through spaces like this, reading the subtle ways I adapted my presence to match or challenge others' expectations. His eyes narrowed at each new data point, building a profile he'd use to justify his interference. That's what Xavier did. He gathered intelligence until he could convince himself his meddling was necessary. Until he could frame his control as protection.

"You look like shit," he said as we approached, the words coming out in Russian. His focus stayed locked on Ash.

"Says the one who flew fourteen hours," I replied in the same tongue, sliding into the seat across from him. The cushion was softer than expected, making me wince as bruises I'd forgotten about made themselves known.

"Sixteen with layovers," Xavier corrected, his eyes catching my reaction. "The hotel is completely booked, by the way."

"You're not staying with us," I said automatically.

"Already had my stuff sent to your room." His smile was pure challenge. "Unless you want me sleeping in the hallway where anyone could..."

"Fine," I cut him off. We'd always been like this, finishing each other's threats as easily as breathing. "But you're taking the couch."

Ash remained standing, one hand on the back of my chair. The gesture probably looked protective to outsiders, but I recognizedit as tactical positioning. Neither of them trusted the other, and it showed in every careful movement.

"Sit down," I told Ash, tugging at his sleeve. "You're making the waiters nervous."

He complied with careful grace, though I noticed he chose the chair that gave him the clearest path to both exits. The silence stretched between us, broken only by the gentle clinking of china as the table next to us finished their breakfast.

The tension vibrated like a plucked wire, both men locked in their own versions of tactical assessment. Xavier's fingers drummed a precise pattern on the table, the same rhythm we’d learned during weapons training. Three taps, pause, two taps. Safety, chamber, fire. I caught Ash tracking the movement, his own hands perfectly still. Two predators sizing each other up while pretending to study their coffee.

A young couple at the next table laughed, the sound sharp against our careful silence. Both men's heads turned slightly at the noise, threat assessment automatic and synchronized. I had to bite back a bitter laugh at how similar they were. These two alpha males were convinced they were nothing alike, but they were both hypervigilant, both deadly, both absolutely certain they knew what was best for me.

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