2. One
September
I twirled the kali sticks in my hands as I stalked through the training room, my reflection ghosting across the mirrored walls in flashes of bare skin and lethal grace. The crop top and compression shorts weren't exactly what Algerone considered appropriate training gear, but watching him try not to have an aneurysm every time I showed up dressed like a CrossFit stripper was half the fun. The way the fabric hugged my body was its own kind of armor. Emphasis on the body, because honey, you don't spend this many hours training not to show it off. Each carefully chosen piece was a reminder that I could be both deadly and beautiful, that I could make men's heads turn right before I kicked their asses.
The clacking of the sticks against each other reverberated through the cavernous space, a sharp, rhythmic staccato that matched the chaos in my head. Each strike, each block, felt like an electric jolt running through me. On days when my thoughts raced too fast, and my skin felt too tight, the training room was my sanctuary. Just me and the arsenal of gear Algerone had assembled, probably hoping the right combination of weights and weapons could fix his "wayward son". His words, not mine. Algerone didn't seem to get that I wasn't a son . I wasn't a boy or a girl. I existed beyond his binary thinking. I was just Xander.
I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall and slowed, just for a second. My reflection stared back: lean, wiry muscle, taut and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Not to toot my own horn, but I was serving face and body today. Which made it extra hilarious remembering fourteen-year-old me, skinny and uncertain, getting my ass kicked in a national martial arts tournament. God, my fashion choices back then were a crime against humanity, though at least I'd already figured out that eyeliner could be both pretty and practical for hiding a black eye.
Yuri had found me crying in the locker room afterward, mascara everywhere, like a raccoon having an emotional breakdown. He hadn't even blinked at the makeup or when I'd asked him to use different pronouns. He'd just squeezed my shoulder and said he was proud of me, even though I'd lost. He was the one who taught me that showing up was half the battle.
The memory ached like an old bruise, even if I'd come a long way from that mess of a teenager. Yuri never missed a tournament after that, always front row, always proud, no matter how I placed. He'd been there through everything—the incident with Xion, the years of therapy, my journey to figure out who I really was. Which made it darkly hilarious that Algerone had swooped in last year claiming biological rights, like DNA somehow trumped two decades of actual parenting. Sorry, not sorry, but sperm donation doesn't make you daddy material, especially when your idea of bonding is kidnapping your adult child and trying to reprogram them into your perfect little heir.
The doors to the training room slid open with a soft whoosh, and my heart rate spiked. I tensed, expecting Algerone's cold critique or maybe Xavier coming to drag me to another therapy session. But when I glanced over, my whole body went hot then cold, like I'd been dunked in ice water and set on fire all at once.
Ashley fucking Valentine.
My pulse kicked into overdrive as I drank in the sight of him. Tall and broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped short and a permanent five o'clock shadow dusting his chiseled jawline. He walked with a slight limp now, favoring his left leg, a souvenir from the bullet he'd taken during his raid on a cannibalistic cult. But damn if that limp didn't make him even sexier somehow, adding to his whole dangerous, world-weary vibe.
He looked more worn than the last time I'd seen him, new lines etched around those storm-gray eyes that had haunted my fantasies for months. But he still carried himself with that same commanding presence that made my knees weak and my borderline personality disorder brain scream danger-safety-want-run all at once.
I forced myself to keep moving through my forms, pretending I hadn't just been eye-fucking the hell out of him. But it was impossible to ignore the electric thrill that raced through my veins at his presence. The last time I'd seen Valentine, I'd sat across from him in a briefing room while he laid out plans to take down a trafficking ring. I'd called him "daddy" just to watch him squirm, to see if I could crack that professional facade.
He'd given me this look , like he wanted to bend me over the table and teach me a lesson about respect. It had been the hottest thing I'd ever experienced.
Now here he was in my space, those intense eyes taking in every detail as Algerone showed him around. I watched the way his shirt stretched across his broad chest, the fabric clinging to muscles that spoke of fieldwork rather than gym routines. The way his ass filled out those perfectly tailored slacks. God, he was perfect. Too perfect. The kind of perfect that would see right through my carefully constructed walls and run screaming. Or worse, stay just long enough to make me believe in forever before walking away like everyone else.
My mind whiplashed between wanting to climb him like a tree and wanting to push him away before he could reject me first. Classic borderline bullshit. Either he was going to be my salvation or my destruction, no in-between. My therapist would be having a field day with this one.
No. Bad Xander. This wasn't about getting laid or finding someone to fix my mess of abandonment issues. This was about proving myself. About showing Algerone I was more than just some pawn on a chess board.
But God, the way Valentine moved... like a predator, all contained power and lethal grace. Like he could throw me down and make me behave with just one look. And wasn't that just the kind of thinking that had my brain spiraling into fantasy land? I was already imagining him as either my knight in tactical armor or the next person to add to my abandonment highlight reel.
The familiar pattern flared up: want him, seduce him, make him want me so bad it hurts, then push him away before he can leave first. Rinse and repeat. At least my therapist would be proud I was recognizing the cycle, even if I was probably going to ignore her advice about "healthy boundaries" and "not using sex as a weapon."
Valentine glanced in my direction and our eyes locked. It was like being hit by a bolt of lightning, every nerve ending in my body suddenly alive and screaming for his touch. My lungs seized up, my chest tightening as I drowned in the intensity of those stormy gray eyes. God, he looked at me like he could see right through my perfectly crafted facade to the mess underneath.
I dragged my gaze away before I spontaneously combusted on the spot, trying to act like I wasn't just mentally undressing him while planning our wedding and subsequent messy divorce. I twirled my kali sticks with a bit more flair than necessary, the muscles in my arms flexing as I moved through an elaborate sequence. The fabric of my crop top rode up just enough to show off the abs I'd earned through countless hours of training. I could be deadly and thirst trap material.
Valentine's eyes tracked my movement, assessing, calculating. But there was something else there too, a heat that had nothing to do with professional evaluation. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his cane when I stretched, and I had to bite back a smile. Score one for the combat Barbie.
I finished my sequence with a showy spin, the kali sticks becoming a blur as I whipped them through the air. Nailed it. Time to see if I could get under Valentine's skin as effectively as he'd gotten under mine. Though honestly? I'd rather have him get under something else entirely. Like my—
No. Focus. I shouldn’t be adding another hot daddy type to my list of questionable life choices. Even if he did look like he could hurt me so good.
Sauntering over to where Algerone and Valentine stood, I plastered on my most provocative grin. "Hey Daddy," I drawled, making sure to pop the 'd' like the insolent brat I was. Let them wonder which one I was talking to. "Fancy seeing you here. Thought you'd be off doing whatever it is rich white guys do when they're not trying to micromanage their offspring's life choices."
Algerone's jaw tightened. "Xander," he greeted, his voice carefully neutral as he pointedly ignored my outfit and attitude. "I see you've been keeping up with your training."
"Well, you know me. Overachiever extraordinaire." I twirled a kali stick, the polished wood reflecting the harsh overhead lights. "Gotta make sure I'm in fighting form for whenever you finally let me in on the super secret mercenary club. Unless this is still about my 'phase'?" I batted my mascaraed lashes at him. "Because honey, two decades is a pretty long phase."
Valentine's lips twitched, like he was suppressing a smirk. I couldn't tell if he was amused by my audacity or just enjoying the way I needled Algerone. Either way, I'd take it as a win. Plus, the way his eyes kept dropping to my bare midriff suggested he was enjoying more than just my witty repartee.
Algerone's expression darkened. "This isn't a game, Xander. What we do is serious business, life and death. It takes more than fancy moves with a stick to prove you're ready."
The familiar rage rose sharp and hot, threatening to choke me. He was always doing this, cutting me down just when I thought I'd finally measured up. "I know that," I snapped, my voice sharper than intended. "You think I've been busting my ass in here just for fun? I've got regional championships, instructor certifications, years of documented expertise. I've been training since I could walk. I've got more practical experience than half your new recruits, but you still treat me like some amateur playing dress-up."
Valentine watched our exchange with those piercing gray eyes, like he was taking mental notes for a psychological profile. It was unnerving, but also kind of thrilling. What did he see when he looked at me? The unhinged screw-up Algerone seemed to think I was? Or something more?
"Martial skill is only part of the equation," Algerone continued, his voice implacable as stone. "Mental discipline, tactical thinking, the ability to follow orders without question—these are all crucial."
I couldn't help the derisive snort that escaped me. "Hey, don't talk to me about discipline until you've been flogged by an Austrian leather daddy who doesn't speak a word of English." The words spilled out of me before I could stop them, a reckless jab meant to throw him off balance. I winked at Valentine, feeling a twisted thrill at the way his mouth tightened ever so slightly.
Valentine's expression remained stony, but I caught the barest flicker of something in his eyes. Heat, maybe? Or was I just projecting my desperate need for daddy's approval onto yet another authority figure? Either way, it was enough to keep my smirk firmly in place as his gaze lingered a fraction too long before he looked away.
Algerone cleared his throat, yanking Valentine's attention back to him. "As I was saying," he continued, scowling at me like I was a particularly annoying fly in his imported mineral water, "Xander still has a lot to learn before he’s ready for active duty. He’s too impulsive, too undisciplined. He needs more training."
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something. "Here we go again with the whole 'Xander's not good enough' spiel," I muttered, loud enough for both of them to hear. "Apparently, being a fucking prodigy in multiple martial arts and having a body that could make a gay priest cream his cassock isn't enough for dear old DNA donor."
"With all due respect, sir," Valentine interjected, his deep, gravelly voice sliding over me like expensive bourbon, "Xander's got more potential than half the rookies that come into the bureau. Raw talent like that doesn't come along often. Maybe what he needs is some real-world experience—a chance to prove himself in the field."
Holy shit, was Valentine actually vouching for me? My chest tightened, my breath hitching as a giddy rush of triumph threatened to burst out of me. Play it cool, Xander. Don't lose your shit just because the DILF of your dreams thinks you have potential. Don't start planning the wedding. Don't imagine him pinning you against the wall and—
Focus. Right. Professional. I can do that.
Algerone's jaw worked, his expression a tug-of-war between reluctance and resignation. "You really think he's ready?"
"With new recruits, there's only one way to find out," Valentine replied, shrugging those deliciously broad shoulders. "Sometimes, the best way to teach a baby bird to fly is to fling him off a cliff."
I couldn't believe my ears. Was this actually happening? Was Algerone "stick-up-his-ass" Caisse-Etremont actually letting me join the super-secret vigilante club? I immediately started spinning fantasies of Valentine teaching me all kinds of things that definitely weren't in the official training manual.
"Fine," Algerone gritted out, his jaw tightening like he'd just been force-fed a spoonful of wasabi. "But since you wanted to vouch for him, he's your responsibility, Valentine. Any fuck-ups are on you."
Valentine dipped his head in a calm, collected nod, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly as though he found my sheer audacity amusing. "Understood."
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. My brain scrambled to process what this meant. This was my chance. The moment I proved I was more than just Algerone's inconvenient legacy, more than just a pretty face with daddy issues and an extensive collection of crop tops.
And, best of all, this meant I was going to be working with Ashley Valentine, the man who somehow managed to look like he could kill you and make you beg for it in the same breath. Though honestly? I was definitely more interested in the begging part.
My emotions ricocheted between ecstatic elation and white-hot panic. This was exactly the kind of situation my therapist had warned me about. I shouldn’t be putting myself in positions where I'd either be worshipped or rejected, with no middle ground. But fuck it. Sometimes the urge to dive headfirst into potentially catastrophic situations actually paid off, right?
"Report for duty at oh-seven hundred hours tomorrow," Algerone barked, his words sharp enough to cut glass. "And for God's sake, try not to get yourself killed on the first day."
I snapped to attention, throwing out a salute as dramatic as it was sarcastic. "Sir, yes, sir!" I chirped, unable to keep the giddiness out of my voice. "No unsanctioned shenanigans, scout's honor." The fact that I'd never been a scout was beside the point.
Algerone didn't even grace that with a response. He muttered something under his breath in French and stalked out, leaving me alone with Valentine.
And oh, how deliciously alone we were.
I turned to the man in question, my grin splitting my face before I could stop it. "Guess I owe you one," I said, leaning in like we were suddenly conspirators. "Must be my lucky day, having such a big, strong man go to bat for little old me."
Valentine fixed me with a look that could've frozen molten lava. "I'm not one of your little boy toys," he growled, his voice low and rough enough to send a shiver down my spine. "And you're not going to flutter your lashes at me and wrap me around your finger."
Ash licked his lips, and I suddenly wished he’d sink his teeth into my neck and suck a nice, dark mark there, one that would last for days.
I felt the need to poke the bear. It was reckless, maybe even stupid, but I couldn't help it. Old habits die hard, and I’d never met an authority figure I didn't want to simultaneously seduce and antagonize. "You're hot when you get all growly like that," I said, batting my lashes for good measure.
He stepped closer, his presence suddenly suffocating in the best way. The warmth radiating off him? The sheer weight of his focus? It was like standing too close to a bonfire. A really sexy bonfire that probably knew fifty ways to kill a man with his thumb.
"Listen here, Xander," he repeated, each word precise and cutting. “If we do this, you follow my rules. You listen when I tell you to jump, and you don't ask how high. You just fucking do it. Are we clear?"
The words stung more than I wanted to admit. I fought the urge to snap back with something crude, to push him away before he could reject me like everyone else. But there was something in his eyes. Not disgust or dismissal, but... challenge?
"Crystal clear, Daddy," I purred, watching his eyes darken at the title. "I can be very, very good at following orders when properly motivated."
Valentine's eyes narrowed, and for a second, I thought I saw a flicker of something softer. Restraint? Want? Whatever it was, it vanished before I could even pin it down.
"See that you are. I don't do second chances." With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the training room, the door whooshing shut behind him.
I stood there for a long moment, my heart galloping in my chest, my compression shorts suddenly way too tight. Holy fuck. That was intense. I'd never been so thoroughly dominated by someone's mere presence before. Valentine hadn't even touched me and I felt owned, claimed. Like he'd reached inside my chest and grabbed hold of my heart, branding it as his.
Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.