Page 110 of Playing with Fire

"Psychological torture," Xion nodded approvingly. "More effective in this case. Physical pain would only strengthen his martyr complex."

"Fuck that," Xander argued. "I want him to suffer physically. I want him to feel a fraction of what Mom felt when she was desperate enough to—"

"He will suffer," I cut him off. "But on our terms, not his. Maxime would welcome a quick death if it meant protecting Algerone from the truth. I don't intend to give him that option."

Xander's jaw worked. "So you're going to tell Algerone everything? Make Maxime watch his world collapse around him?"

"Yes." I kept my voice cold, detached. "And I want to see his face when it happens."

"I'm coming with you," Xander declared, already moving toward the door.

"No," I countered. "You're too volatile right now. Algerone would shut down if all three of us descended on him at once."

"So I'm just supposed to sit here while you confront the man who fucked up our entire lives?" Xander demanded, hands curling into fists.

"Yes," I replied, unwavering. "Because I need you here with Leo. And because we need someone to create a distraction while I get to Algerone's room without interference."

Xander wavered, the calculation visible on his face—his need for immediate action against the tactical advantage of the plan I was proposing.

"Fine," he conceded finally. "But you tear him apart, X. Make sure Algerone understands that whatever was between him and Maxime is over. Non-negotiable."

"Believe me," I said, my voice dropping to a register I usually reserved for my prey, "when I'm done, Algerone will never look at Maxime the same way again."

Thehospitalcorridorswereeerily silent this late at night, lighting dimmed to simulate normal circadian rhythms for patients.

My injured leg protested every step, but I adjusted my gait to compensate, distributing weight differently. The IV stand rolled quietly beside me as I approached where Reid stood at the end of the hallway, guarding access to Algerone.

He didn’t stop me as I approached, simply gave me a small nod and stepped aside, holding the door open for me.

My biological father was lying in the bed, connected to more monitors than I had been. His skin had a waxy pallor, the usual power and authority stripped away by injury and medication. Maxime sat beside him, shoulders hunched in a posture I recognized as defeat. His hand held Algerone's, fingers intertwined in a gesture that spoke of years of intimacy.

Perfect.

Maxime's head snapped up as I moved the curtain aside. "Xavier," he said, standing quickly. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

"Sit down," I ordered, voice flat and cold. The kind of tone that Leo had once noted was more frightening than when I shouted. Maxime obeyed instantly, conditioned by decades of taking orders.

Algerone's eyes opened, alert and clear despite what must have been considerable pain from his injuries. He took in my appearance with the same calculating assessment I'd seen in the mirror all my life. "You look like hell," he observed.

"Apparently running into burning buildings is genetic," I replied, the barb deliberately aimed at both of them. "How touching to see you playing nursemaid, Maxime. Still controlling who has access to him?"

Maxime's face drained of color, his eyes widening in unmistakable panic. "Xavier," he said, voice suddenly tight, "perhaps we should discuss this in private." His eyes darted to Algerone, then back to me, silently pleading.

"I think Algerone deserves to know exactly what you did. After all, you've had thirty years to tell him the truth yourself."

"What is he talking about, Max?" Algerone asked, gaze shifting between us. For the first time since I'd entered the room, uncertainty had replaced his usual commanding presence.

Maxime's grip on Algerone's hand tightened convulsively, as if he might physically hold on to the relationship that was slipping away. "I don't—" he started, looking frantically between Algerone and me, desperate for a way out. "This is a misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding?" My voice was cold but controlled. "Thirty years of deception is hardly a misunderstanding, Maxime."

Algerone's attention focused fully on me now, his confusion deepening. "Xavier, explain yourself clearly. What exactly are you accusing Maxime of?"

I met his gaze steadily, anger simmering beneath my controlled exterior. "I'm not the one who needs to explain." I turned to Maxime, who looked like he might collapse. "Tell him. Tell him about my mother. About what you did to us."

Maxime's face drained completely of color. His eyes, wide with panic, fixed on me with desperate intensity. "Xavier, please," he whispered, voice trembling. "Not like this. Not now." He was on the verge of tears, hands clasped in front of him like a prayer. "I'm begging you. He's still recovering. There's a better way—"

"There is no better way," I cut him off, unmoved. "The truth. Now."

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