Page 27 of Hero Worship

His thumb traced the line of my throat, and I watched him catalogue every reaction, every hitched breath. The profiler in him never stopped working, even now. Especially now. He was documenting every tell, every weakness, building a case file of exactly how to take me apart. Part of me wanted to hide from that penetrating gaze, to maintain some pretense of control. But the ketamine had stripped away my defenses, leaving me raw and honest in ways I couldn't fight.

The distant part of my brain that still functioned recognized this for what it was: just another self-destructive spiral, another way to prove I wasn't worth keeping. The BPD made everything feel like too much or not enough, loved or abandoned, seen or invisible. Some days, I couldn't tell if I was running from others' expectations or my own inability to meet them. The ketamine at least made the questions quieter, even if it couldn't make them disappear.

But Ash's grip was steady even as his control frayed, like he knew exactly what demons drove me and was ready to fight them all.

Heat flooded my body even as tears burned behind my eyes. "Stop it. You can't—you don't get to do this. You don't get to touch me like that and then push me away and then act like—"

"Like what?" His thumb stroked over my pulse point. "Like you're mine? Like I want to take you apart piece by piece until you're begging for it?" His other hand caught my wrist, grip tightening when he felt how fast my pulse was racing. "Because I do. God help me, I shouldn't, but I do."

"Then why did you let me leave?" The words came out raw, honest in a way the ketamine wouldn't let me control. "Why didn't you stop me?"

"Because I needed time to think." His grip flexed against my throat. "Because you deserve better than some straightguy's sexual crisis. Because I couldn't trust myself not to take everything you were offering right there on my desk."

I pressed into his touch, desperate for more contact. "I wanted you to. Still want you to."

"I know, baby. I know." His voice went soft, almost gentle. "But not like this. Not when you're too high to remember it." He pulled back slightly, eyes searching my face. "Where's your bag? We need to get you somewhere safe."

"The flight—"

"I'll deal with it." He cut me off, voice brooking no argument. "You're more important than the mission right now."

I shook my head, the motion making the room spin. "No, I'm not. I'm not important at all. I'm just—I'm nothing. I can't even do this right. Can't even make it through one day without fucking everything up and now you're going to hate me and—"

"Hey." His grip tightened, forcing me to focus on him. "Look at me. You are not nothing. You're mine. My partner. My responsibility." His thumb stroked over my racing pulse.

Heat pooled low in my gut even as anxiety clawed at my chest. "How do I know you mean it this time? How do I know you won't change your mind?"

"Because I need you functional." He pressed closer, using his body to cage me against the wall, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the way he held himself slightly back. "I'm not watching you spiral just because I..." He cut himself off, something complicated flashing across his face before his expression hardened into familiar control. "You want my attention? Fine. But we do this my way."

I wanted to say no, to push back against the manipulation I could hear in his voice. But God help me, I'd take whatever scraps he was willing to offer.

"I don't know how to trust anyone anymore," I whispered, voice cracking. “I don't know how to stop feeling like this. LikeI'm coming apart. Like I'm not real unless you're touching me. Even then, I'm never sure which version of me you're seeing. Which parts you want to keep and which parts you'll ask me to hide away.”

His expression flickered, the mask slipping for just a second before he caught himself. He brought his thumb up to brush over my bottom lip. "Then be good for me," he murmured, voice pitched low in that way he knew made me shiver. "Let me take care of you."

I laughed, bitter and wanting. "Using sex to control me now? That's low, even for you."

"Is it working?" His eyes were dark, knowing.

"Yes," I admitted, the word scraping raw in my throat. "Fuck, yes. I hate that it is, but yes."

His answering smile was all predator, and something in me wanted to push back against that confidence, to make him work for it. The ketamine made me reckless.

"And what if I don't want to be good for you?"

His grip tightened fractionally. "Then I'll make you be good. One way or another." He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. "Your choice, baby. We can do this the easy way, or I can show you exactly how far I'm willing to go to keep you in line."

I should have been scared. Should have fought harder against the way he was trying to control me. Instead, I felt myself going pliant under his hands, craving the steel in his voice more than my next breath.

"There you go," he murmured, satisfaction threading through his tone even as he glanced nervously at the bathroom door. "Now come on. Let's get you somewhere private before you make me do something we'll both regret."

I let him lead me away, knowing this was probably just another manipulation, another way to keep me under control. But with the ketamine singing in my veins and his promisesechoing in my head, I couldn't bring myself to care. I'd take the pain when it came. For now, I'd let myself pretend this was real.

My house felt likea cage with Xander in it. Every instinct I'd inherited from my father screamed to possess, to control, to break him down and rebuild him in my image. But that possessive streak was exactly what I'd spent my life running from. I’d spent my life choosing justice over power, proving I wasn't the monster my blood said I should be.

Now here I was, watching Xander shiver through ketamine withdrawal on my couch, drowning in my old Army shirt. The fabric that normally stretched across my chest hung loose on his smaller frame, slipping off one pale shoulder to reveal a constellation of freckles I hadn't known existed. Somethingprimitive and possessive stirred in my gut at the sight. He looked claimed, marked as mine in the most primal way possible. The trust he'd placed in me felt like a collar around my own neck, choking me with responsibility I wasn't sure I deserved.

"Cold," he whimpered, curling tighter into the blanket I'd wrapped around him.

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