10. Nine
I sprawled across my bed, every muscle screaming from Ash's brutal training session, but the pain felt right. Felt real. The kind of anchoring sensation I desperately needed when my thoughts started racing too fast to catch. Paris. The fucking City of Light. And I was going there with Ash Valentine—my handler, my fake husband, the man who looked at me like I was simultaneously the most fascinating and frustrating thing he'd ever seen.
My skin felt too tight, electricity crackling just beneath the surface. I couldn't tell if I was flying high or spiraling down, but at least the chaos in my head had focus now. Purpose. A mission. More than that—a chance to prove myself. To show Ash, to show everyone, that I wasn't just Algerone's broken toy or the Laskins' troubled child.
The familiar spiral started, my brain already spinning fantasies of what could be. Ash and I sharing a hotel room, forced into close quarters. The way he'd look at me when I emerged from the shower in nothing but steam and a smile. How he'd try to maintain that iron control of his until it finally snapped and he—
No. Stop.
I pressed my face into the cool cotton of my pillowcase, trying to ground myself in the sensation. I couldn't afford to get lost in those fantasies right now. Couldn't let myself build Ash up into something he wasn't, couldn't start planning our tragic romance before it even began. My therapist would be so proud of me recognizing the pattern. Less proud of how I was probably going to ignore her advice and dive headfirst into it anyway.
But fuck, the way Ash looked at me during training today... Like he wanted to break me apart and put me back together stronger. Like he saw straight through my carefully constructed walls to the mess underneath and wasn't running away. Not yet, anyway.
My hand slid down my stomach of its own accord, fingertips trailing over the lace edge of my favorite black boy shorts. The fabric felt delicate against my skin, a reminder that I could be both dangerous and beautiful. That femininity could be armor just as much as it could be an invitation.
Growing up different—genderqueer, neurodivergent, too much of everything—had taught me the power of presentation. Papa Yuri never blinked when I started experimenting with makeup, and Mom just smiled and taught me how to do a perfect cat-eye. Even Shepherd, with all his alters' different opinions on everything, just shrugged and said presentation was performance and performance was power.
But Algerone? God, the way his jaw clenched every time I showed up to training in crop tops and painted nails. Like his precious heir was some kind of deviation that needed correcting. Well, fuck him. I'd earned every scar, every victory, every scrap of confidence it took to be exactly who I was. My love of makeup wasn’t a weakness. It was war paint.
My body responded instantly to the memories of training, to thoughts of Ash's hands on me, adjusting my stance with that perfect mix of firmness and control. I needed something to quiet the chaos in my head before it consumed me. The familiar pattern started: want, take, regret, repeat. But I couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop.
My hand moved faster on my cock as I lost myself in the fantasy, imagining Ash finding me like this, spread out and desperate for him. The thought of him catching me, of those storm-gray eyes darkening with hunger as he watched me touch myself... A desperate sound escaped my throat as pleasure built, everything else falling away except the need to chase this feeling, to find some relief from the constant ache of wanting. My hips bucked up into my grip, seeking more friction, more sensation, anything to quiet the chaos in my head.
Papa would say I was using sex the same way some men used alcohol: to numb the pain, to feel something, to feel nothing. My therapist had prettier words for it: "maladaptive coping mechanisms" and "seeking validation through sexual behavior." But in moments like this, with my skin too tight and my thoughts racing too fast, it was either this or the pills hidden in my dresser drawer. At least this way I was only hurting myself.
I arched off the bed, chasing the high that would make everything quiet, just for a moment. My free hand crept lower, pushing aside the lace as I—
"Really, Dee? Again?"
Xavier's voice cut through my fantasy like a bucket of ice water. I yelped, scrambling to cover myself, but it was too late. My brother stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing that expression that meant he was about to lecture me again.
"Jesus fuck, X!" I snapped, yanking my blanket over my lap. "Learn to fucking knock!"
"It's my room too, you disaster," he shot back, wearing that expression that meant he was about to drag me for my entire life choices. His voice had that careful edge though, the kind that meant he was reading every micro-expression, cataloging my tells. "And this is like the third time today I've caught you with your hand down your pants thinking about Valentine."
Heat flooded my face, but I forced a smirk. "What can I say? Daddy's got me feeling some type of way."
"Stop." Xavier's voice went sharp, that dangerous edge he usually kept hidden surfacing. "This isn't funny anymore, Dee. You're spiraling and we both know it."
The words hit like a physical blow, my chest going tight. "I'm not—"
"You are." He crossed the room in three quick strides, perching on the edge of my bed. His eyes tracked over my face, reading things I tried so hard to hide. "The obsessive fantasies, the risky behavior, pushing everyone away... When's the last time you went a day without getting off to thoughts of him? When's the last time you did anything besides train and pine and self-destruct?"
"Fuck you," I snarled, but there wasn't any real heat in it. We both knew he was right. "I don't need another lecture about my 'concerning behavior patterns.' I get enough of that from my therapist."
"When's the last time you actually went to therapy?"
I looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "I've been busy."
"Yeah, I noticed." Xavier's voice went sharp. "Busy disappearing to Spade Tower every day, busy avoiding family dinners, busy lying about where you're going and what you're doing."
Ice slid down my spine. The accusation hit too close to home. "I'm not—"
"Don't." He cut me off. "Don't lie to me again. You're hiding something, Dee. Something big. And whatever it is has you spiraling harder than I've seen since..." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to. We both remembered those dark days after Xion's break.
My chest tightened with guilt. I wanted to tell him everything—about the mission, about Paris, about Ash. But I couldn't. Not without putting him at risk. Not without ruining everything I'd worked for. So I did what I always did when things got too real: I deflected.
"What, a guy can't have some privacy?" I forced a smirk. "Maybe I just got tired of you monitoring my every move like some kind of emotional security system."
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I'd gone too far. Xavier went completely still, the kind of stillness that meant I'd actually hurt him. When he spoke again, his voice was deadly quiet.
"You know what? You're right. Maybe I should stop caring so much about what you do. Stop worrying when you disappear for days without answering texts. Stop noticing how you come home with bruises you won't explain. Stop wondering if this time you're going to get yourself killed trying to prove something."
My heart stopped, then kicked into overdrive. He was too close to the truth. Too close to figuring out exactly what kind of training left those bruises, what kind of missions I was preparing for. "X, I can explain—"
"Can you?" His voice was gentle now, which somehow made it worse. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're throwing yourself into something dangerous. Again. Chasing after a man twice your age who probably sees you as nothing but a problem to solve. Again."
"It's not like that," I protested, but we both knew I was lying. "Ash is different."
"Why? Because he's the first daddy type who's actually resisted your charms? Because he makes you work for his attention instead of just taking what you're offering?"
The words struck too close to home, hitting every insecurity I tried to bury under bravado and sex appeal. "You don't understand," I whispered, hating how small my voice sounded. "The way he looks at me sometimes... like he sees straight through all my bullshit to something worth saving."
"Oh, bratishka." Xavier's expression softened into something painful to look at. "You don't need someone else to save you. You need to stop trying to destroy yourself just to see if anyone cares enough to stop you."
Tears pricked at my eyes and I blinked them back furiously. "I'm not—" My voice cracked. "I'm not trying to destroy myself. I just... I need..."
"What?" Xavier pressed. "What do you need so badly that you're willing to risk everything for it?"
The truth clawed its way up my throat before I could stop it. "To matter," I whispered. "To be worth something to someone who isn't obligated to love me by blood or adoption papers."
Xavier's arms wrapped around me, pulling me into a fierce hug. I collapsed against him, breathing in the familiar scent of gunpowder and Papa's fabric softener. "You fucking idiot," he muttered into my hair. "You already matter. To me, to Xion, to our whole fucked-up family. You don't need to earn it."
I clutched at his shirt, feeling fifteen again. Lost and scared and desperate for anyone to see me, to want me, to keep me. "I can't lose him," I admitted into Xavier's shoulder. "I know it's stupid and fast and probably just my BPD brain latching onto the first person who showed me firm boundaries, but... I want him to be proud of me. To think I'm worth training, worth keeping, worth..."
"Worth loving?" Xavier finished softly.
I sighed. "Okay," I said finally, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "You want to know what's going on? I got an internship. In Paris."
Xavier went still, that dangerous stillness that meant he was reading every micro-expression. "An internship."
"Yeah." The lie came easier than it should have. "Through Dad's company. Some international business program thing." I forced a smile, trying to make it sound exciting rather than terrifying. "Three months in Paris, learning the corporate side of things. Good money, looks great on a resume..."
"Since when do you care about resumes?" Xavier's voice was carefully neutral, but I could feel him analyzing every word, every gesture. "Or business? Or anything Algerone offers?"
I shrugged, aiming for casual even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "Maybe I'm growing up. Maybe I'm tired of being the family fuck-up." The best lies always had a grain of truth. "Besides, it's Paris. Fashion capital of the world. Think of all the trouble I could get into there."
"For how long?"
My stomach twisted. Another lie to add to the pile. "Not sure yet. Depends how things go."
"Not sure." Xavier's voice went flat. "You're taking off to another continent and you don't even know how long you'll be gone?"
"It's complicated," I said weakly. "There are different phases to the program, and if I do well enough in the first part..."
"Bullshit." He cut me off. "You've never cared about corporate ladder-climbing or impressing Algerone before. What's really going on, Dee?"
"It's not like that," I protested, but we both knew I was lying. "I just... I need this, X. I need to prove I can do something real. Something that matters."
"And you can't do that here?" The hurt in his voice was worse than the anger would have been. "With your family? With people who actually give a shit about you?"
Guilt twisted in my gut. I wanted to tell him everything—about Lucky Losers, about the mission, about how this was my chance to be more than just Algerone's broken heir or the Laskins' troubled child. But I couldn't. Not without putting him at risk.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. "When am I ever thinking straight?"
"I'm serious, Dee." Xavier pulled back enough to look me in the eye. "Promise me something?"
"What?"
"Promise me you'll remember who you are." His voice was intense, almost desperate. "Not who Valentine wants you to be, or who Algerone is trying to shape you into. Remember that you're Xander fucking Laskin, and you've survived worse than whatever this is."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Because he was right—I had survived worse. Survived Xion's break, survived five years without him, survived Algerone's attempts to reprogram me into his perfect heir. I'd survived every abandonment, every rejection, every time someone decided I was too much or not enough.
"I promise," I whispered, and for once, I actually meant it.
Xavier squeezed me tight once more before releasing me. "Good. Now please, for the love of God, put a sock on the door next time you're having private time with your Valentine fantasies. I'm traumatized enough as it is."
I managed a weak laugh, scrubbing at my eyes. "No promises. You know how I feel about exhibitionism."
"You're disgusting." But there was fondness in his voice as he stood. "Try to actually sleep tonight, okay? And maybe call your therapist in the morning?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Xavier gave me one last knowing look before heading for the door.
"Hey, X?" I called after him.
He paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"Thanks. For... you know. Everything."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Always, Dee. Always."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I flopped back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling as Xavier's words echoed in my head. Remember who you are .
The problem was, I wasn't sure I knew anymore. Was I Algerone's heir? The Laskins' troubled child? Ash's newest project?
I guess I'd find out in Paris.
Rolling over, I grabbed Mr. Bitey from his place of honor on my pillow. The stuffed shark had seen me through every crisis, every breakdown, every time I'd needed reminding that I was more than my diagnoses or daddy issues.
"What do you think, buddy?" I whispered to his perfectly imperfect smile. "Think I can do this without completely falling apart?"
Mr. Bitey just smiled his crooked embroidered smile, offering the same unconditional support he had since I was five. I hugged him close, breathing in the familiar scent of fabric softener and home.
Maybe Xavier was right. Maybe I needed to stop trying to be what everyone else wanted and figure out who I actually was. But that was tomorrow's problem.
I hugged Mr. Bitey close. Tomorrow I'd have to face Ash's brutal training, face more lies to my family, face whatever the fuck I was becoming. But tonight? Tonight I could just be Xander, the kid with a stuffed shark and too many secrets.
Paris better be worth it. Because the way Xavier had looked at me when I lied to his face? That was going to haunt me long after the bruises from training faded.