Page 30 of Hero Worship

I stripped efficiently, keeping my movements measured despite the way my hands wanted to shake. The weight of Xander's gaze on my bare chest felt like a physical touch. When I got down to my boxers, I forced myself to meet his eyes.

"This okay?" My voice was barely recognizable, rough with something I didn't want to name.

Instead of answering, he held out his arms like a child seeking comfort. Something in my chest cracked open at the gesture.

I slid into bed beside him, and he immediately curled into me, pressing as much skin against mine as possible. The contact was electric, every nerve ending lighting up where we touched. He was so small compared to me, fitting perfectly against my chest like he was made to be there.

"Thank you," he mumbled into my skin. "For taking care of me. For wanting me even when I'm a mess."

I tightened my arms around him, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You're mine now," I growled, the words more possessive than intended. "That means your messes are mine, too. Your pain is mine. Your pleasure is mine. Everything you are belongs to me."

He shivered, pressing closer. "Promise?"

"I promise, baby." I stroked his hair, feeling him relax further into my touch. "But that means you listen to me from now on. No more drugs. No more reckless behavior. Your body belongs to me, and I don't share what's mine."

He made a small sound of agreement, already drifting toward sleep. I held him close, breathing in the scent of my soap on his skin.

I stared at the ceiling, mind racing. This wasn't like my parents. It couldn't be.

But as I traced idle patterns on his skin, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath my fingers, I couldn't quite silence the voice in my head that whispered: Like father, like son.

Maybe some evil ran too deep to escape. Maybe the only difference between my father and me was that I'd found someone who actually wanted to be possessed.

God help us both.

Xander made a soft sound in his sleep, pressing closer like he could crawl inside my skin if he tried hard enough. I let him, knowing that this trust was a gift I couldn't take for granted. He'd let me see him at his most vulnerable. The least I could do was prove worthy of that trust.

Even if that meant fighting my own demons every step of the way.

I woke up feelingwarm, safe, and utterly possessed. The sun was too high in the sky. We should have been on a plane to Paris by now, tracking Roche's movements. Instead, I was in Ash's bed, wearing his clothes, the ghost of ketamine still clouding the edges of my mind. My BPD brain cycled rapidly between euphoria at being held and terror that this tenderness couldn't last. One or both of those things had made me so fucking hard it hurt.

Ash's arm was a heavy weight across my waist, his broad chest pressed against my back. The oversized t-shirt I wore—his t-shirt, the one he'd dressed me in when I was too strung out tocare for myself—had ridden up in the night, and his calloused fingers rested possessively on the strip of skin above my lace panties. My dick strained against the delicate black fabric.

I should have felt trapped. Should have been planning my escape. But I didn't want to run. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the ketamine, or maybe it was how Ash had taken care of me last night, or the way he'd seen through my masks to the broken parts underneath and hadn't flinched away. I just wanted more of his touch, more of this aching fullness in my chest.

I shifted, trying to find some relief, and his grip immediately tightened. The possessive weight of his arm felt like an anchor, keeping my thoughts from dragging me under. Morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, painting patterns across his skin where it pressed against mine. Training had given him a body built for violence, all hard planes and brutal strength, but the way he held me now was gentle. Careful. Like I was something precious, rather than just another asset to be controlled.

The contrast between his protective touch and my usual morning-after panic made my chest tight. For once, my brain wasn't screaming at me to run. But Ash's steady breathing against my neck, the way his fingers splayed possessively across my skin… It felt like being claimed rather than just being used.

His voice rumbled against my ear, rough with sleep but somehow still commanding. "Running away, baby? You know better than that."

The touch sent me back to last night, to gentle hands guiding me through the worst of the high, to a voice that promised safety instead of judgment. The way he spoke, so sure, so possessive, made me feel like there was no escape. He wanted me here. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted him to want that.

"Just getting comfortable," I murmured, pressing back against the impressive hardness I could feel through his boxers.

"Mm." His hand slid higher under the shirt, trailing over my ribs. "How're you feeling?"

"Horny," I replied, grinding back with more purpose. "Very, very horny."

His grip tightened, stilling my movements. "Such a needy baby, aren’t you?"

My whole body shuddered at the pet name, heat pooling low in my belly.

"You like that?" His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Like being my baby?"

I could only nod, desperate for more.

"Think you can handle what you're asking for?"

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