Page 11 of Hero Worship

But this was different. Had to be different. Because, unlike my father, I actually cared about Xander's wellbeing. Wanted to see him grow stronger, not just bend to my will. The fact that those protective instincts came wrapped in darker desires... well, that was something I'd have to learn to navigate.

I tossed him a water bottle, watching as he gulped it down greedily. "Time we had a talk about how things are going to work from now on."

His eyes met mine, wariness warring with that ever-present need to push buttons. "Gonna lay down the law, Daddy?"

The title hit me like a physical blow, stirring something possessive and hungry in my gut. I forced it down, focusing on the task at hand. "Random drug tests starting today. Full STI panel too. No more clubs, no more random hookups, no more showing up to training hungover." I kept my voice firm but not cruel, establishing boundaries while watching their reaction carefully.

"Or what?" they challenged, but there was something desperate in their eyes. Looking for boundaries, looking for proof I meant what I said.

"Or I'll show you exactly what real discipline looks like. And trust me, baby—you won't enjoy it nearly as much as you think you will."

A visible shiver ran through him. "What if I want you to show me anyway?"

Christ. The raw need in their voice made me want to grab them by the throat and show them exactly what happened to brats who played with fire. He knew how to push every one of my buttons just right.

I forced myself to step back, putting a safe distance between us.

"Hit the showers," I ordered, my voice rough. "Then report to medical for your tests. Don't even think about trying to skip out."

He stood slowly, swaying slightly with exhaustion. But that defiant spark was still there when he looked at me. "Yes, sir," he purred, making the honorific sound downright pornographic.

I watched him saunter toward the locker room, fighting the urge to follow. To push him up against the wall and... No. That way lay madness. I was supposed to be helping him, not adding to his issues.

But as I gathered my things to leave, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was already in too deep. That this beautiful, broken boy would either be my salvation or my downfall.

Probably both.

I just hoped we'd both survive finding out which.

Back in my office, I poured three fingers of bourbon and tried to make sense of what was happening to me. Three decades of certainty about who I was, crumbling because one fascinating disaster walked into my life. It wasn't just the physical attraction. Though Christ, watching them move through that course had done things to me. No, there was something deeper there. Something needy.

My hand shook slightly as I poured another drink.

The intensity of my reaction to his lateness worried me. Law enforcement had taught me to never let cases get personal. But everything about Xander felt personal in a way I couldn't ignore. The way he tested boundaries while clearly craving structure, the careful maintenance that went into crafting his image, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide beneath provocative behavior. It all called to something protective and possessive in my nature.

"Fuck," I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. What kind of mid-life crisis was this? Getting hard over some twenty-something in makeup and painted nails just because he batted his eyes and called me daddy?

I swallowed the rest of my drink, hoping the burn would drown out the memory of those desperate eyes. The way my body had reacted when he'd called me 'sir.'

I thought I was straight my whole life, and now I was having fantasies about bending Xander over my desk, about marking that pale throat so everyone would know who they belonged to. What the hell was wrong with me?

But even as I asked the question, I knew the answer. Nothing was wrong with me. I just wasn't as straight as I'd thought. And that realization? It should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like finally admitting something I'd always known but never had the courage to face.

I dragged myself upthe steps of our farmhouse, muscles screaming from Valentine's brutal training session. The familiar creak of the third step barely registered through the fog of exhaustion and lingering shame. Everything hurt, a physical manifestation of how spectacularly I'd fucked up last night. Valentine had pushed me to my limits today, like he could somehow train the chaos out of me. Like enough push-ups and obstacle courses could fix whatever was broken in my head.

The house was too quiet when I stumbled inside. It was that peculiar stillness that meant Papa was probably next door at the funeral home, helping Uncle Nikita with another "disposalneed." Mom was likely over at Warrick and Pax's place with the girls, or maybe watching little Noah while his mom was at work. Aunt Tatty would be wherever mob princesses went during the day.

Maybe our little family was weird, full of vigilante serial killers, the Russian mobsters, and enough complicated relationships to make a soap opera writer quit in frustration, but we were still family in all the ways that mattered.

I paused at the family photos lining the hallway, my reflection ghosting over faces frozen in happier times. Yuri beaming at Mom's retirement party. Aunt Tatiana dancing with Warrick at his graduation party in the backyard. Shepherd's different alters each getting their own frame, because family meant accepting every part of someone. The newest addition showed little Noah, Shepherd’s nephew, on his first birthday, chocolate cake everywhere, while his mom laughed in the background.

Sometimes I wondered if normal families took this many pictures, documented every minor milestone like it was precious. But then, normal families didn't have to worry about losing members to mob wars or vigilante missions gone wrong. Every photo was a promise. We were here, we existed, we loved each other despite or maybe because of our damage.

I kicked off my boots, wincing at how the movement pulled at overworked muscles. The training bag hit the floor with a thud that echoed through the empty foyer. All I wanted was to crawl into bed and forget how Valentine's eyes had burned into me during training, that mix of disappointment and something darker that made my skin feel too tight.

"Xander."

Xavier's voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. I didn't need to look at him to know he was already reading me. That's what he did. He used that freaky empathy of his to see straightthrough everyone's defenses. He stood in the archway to the living room, arms crossed over his chest, positioned perfectly to block any escape route. Even without looking directly at him, I could feel the false concern radiating off him in waves.

---