13. Twelve
My house felt like a 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 darkness 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. Something primitive 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.
"I know, baby." The endearment slipped out before I could catch it. "It'll pass."
His eyes fluttered open at that, glazed but seeking. Even half-conscious, he responded to my voice with an eagerness that made my cock throb. Such a pretty thing, so desperate to please. To belong.
Christ. I needed to get my head straight.
The urge to possess, to control… It wasn't just about desire anymore. It was about protection. About keeping him safe from his own self-destructive impulses. But was that just what my father had told himself? That he was protecting my mother by controlling every aspect of her life? By "collecting" her like some precious thing to be preserved behind glass?
I could still remember the way she'd looked in those final days before she died. She’d been beautiful and fragile as a butterfly pinned to velvet. The way she'd smiled at my father like he was her whole world, even as he slowly drained the life from her. He'd called it love. Called it protection. But all he'd really wanted was to own something perfect, to control something beautiful until it stopped breathing entirely.
My hands shook as I watched Xander burrow deeper into my blanket. The parallel was too close, too dangerous. Here I was, taking in another beautiful, broken creature. Wanting to possess him, to control him, to keep him safe. But was I any different from my father? Or was this darkness in my blood finally showing itself, wrapped in prettier packaging, but just as toxic underneath?
The thought hit like ice water in my veins. Is that what this was? History repeating itself? The same darkness that had driven my father now pushing me to possess Xander?
I shifted, reaching for the bottle of water on the coffee table. We needed to keep him hydrated through this. But the moment I moved, Xander's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength.
"Please," he mumbled, eyes still closed but face tight with panic. "Don't leave."
I caught his trembling hand in mine, squeezing perhaps harder than necessary. "I'm not going anywhere." The words came out rougher than intended. "But we're going to have a serious conversation about boundaries when you're coherent. And right now, you need to drink some water."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Gonna punish me for being bad, Daddy?"
Heat flooded my body at the title, even as shame churned in my gut. Because yes, part of me wanted exactly that. Wanted to bend him over my knee and mark that pale skin until he understood exactly what disobedience earned. Wanted to show him that actions had consequences in ways that would leave him aching for days.
The intensity of my own desires terrified me. This darkness in my blood, this need to possess and control… It was exactly what I'd spent my life running from.
"No," I growled, as much to myself as to him. "That's not what this is about."
But Xander was already moving, trying to straddle my lap despite his obvious dizziness. "Could be," he purred, though the effect was somewhat ruined by how badly he was shaking. "Could let me make it up to you. Show you how sorry I am..."
I caught his hips in a bruising grip, holding him still. "Stop." The word came out sharp as a knife. "You don't need to earn my care with your body."
Something vulnerable flashed across his face before that practiced mask slipped back into place. "Don't you want me anymore?" The question wavered between genuine hurt and calculated manipulation.
"You know I do." I tightened my grip, making him gasp. "But not like this. Not when you're using sex to avoid dealing with why you took that ketamine in the first place."
His expression crumpled, the facade finally cracking. "I just wanted to stop feeling like this for five fucking minutes," he whispered, voice raw. "Like I'm not enough. Like I'll never be enough."
The words hit too close to home. I'd spent my whole career hunting men who preyed on that kind of vulnerability, who took desperate people and twisted them into weapons. Men like my father, who'd built an empire on breaking people. The millions sitting untouched in my accounts were proof of how profitable that kind of manipulation could be.
"Look at me." I cupped his jaw, forcing those desperate eyes to meet mine. "You are enough. But this? The drugs, the reckless behavior? It stops now. You belong to me, which means your safety belongs to me. Your wellbeing belongs to me. Your pain belongs to me. Do you understand?"
He shuddered, pupils blown wide. "Yes, Sir."
"Good," I purred, watching him melt at the praise. "So perfect for me." Such a pretty thing, so desperate for validation. For structure. For someone strong enough to keep him in line.
The intensity of my own possessiveness twisted something sick in my gut. The familiar patterns screamed at me, a trained profiler recognizing the signs of obsession forming. The way I tracked his breathing, cataloged every micro-expression, anticipated his needs before he voiced them. It was the kind of hyper-focus I'd seen in countless case files. The kind that started with protection and ended with possession.
But there was something different here, too. Something that didn't fit the profile I'd spent years studying. When my father had protected my mother, it had been about control. About making her dependent on him, isolating her from everyone else until his voice was the only one she heard. But with Xander... I wanted him stronger, not weaker. Wanted to build him up, not break him down. Wanted him to choose me, not need me.
Maybe that was the real difference between protection and possession: the desire to see the other person grow versus the need to keep them small. My father had wanted my mother perfectly preserved, unchanged, like one of his precious butterflies. I wanted Xander to flourish, to become more fully himself, even if that meant he might one day choose to leave.
His eyes were starting to glaze again, exhaustion and ketamine residue pulling him under. I caught glimpses of the child he must have been—desperate to prove he was worth keeping, worth choosing, worth loving. His file had detailed how Annie had taken the triplets directly from their unstable biological mother, a B-movie starlet who'd later succumbed to her paranoid delusions. Even having loving adoptive parents couldn't completely erase that primal wound. It must’ve been hard never knowing where he came from, who the people were that made him.
The profiler in me recognized the patterns. How that early abandonment had shaped his adult relationships, made him push people away before they could reject him. Made him seek out temporary connections, using his body as currency for fleeting moments of approval. The incident with Xion at fourteen had only reinforced those fears. To Xander, it was proof that even family could turn on you, that love wasn't guaranteed to last.
I recognized the signs of attachment forming. The way he tracked my movements even when half-conscious, the subtle tells that showed he was already attuning himself to my moods. In anyone else, it might have seemed manipulative. But with Xander, it was pure survival instinct. Even with all the love the Laskins had given him, that deep fear of abandonment had never fully healed. Learning to read people, to be whatever they needed, had become his shield against rejection.
No. I couldn't let him pass out here, couldn't risk him falling back into that chemical darkness. He needed real sleep, somewhere I could watch over him properly.
"Bed," I decided, scooping him up before he could protest. "You need real rest, not just drug-induced unconsciousness."
He nuzzled into my neck as I carried him, breath hot against my skin. "Stay with me?"
I hesitated at the threshold of my bedroom. Since my last divorce, I'd kept this space strictly off-limits for anything beyond quick, meaningless encounters. Sex was one thing. Letting someone stay, letting them sleep beside me? That was something else entirely. Something I hadn't allowed since learning how dangerous real intimacy could be.
But the thought of leaving him alone in this state made something protective and possessive rear up in my chest. "Yeah, baby. I'll stay. Let's get you comfortable." My voice came out rougher than intended as I reached for the hem of his shirt. "Arms up for me."
Xander complied with drowsy grace, lifting his arms like a child. As I peeled the sweat-damp fabric away, my breath caught. I'd seen him half-dressed before, strutting around the training room in crop tops designed to distract. But this was different. Without the carefully crafted presentation, without the armor of perfect makeup and provocative clothing, he was devastating in his vulnerability.
Pale skin stretched over lean muscle, marred here and there by scars I wanted to trace with my tongue. A constellation of freckles dusted his shoulders, scattered like stars across marble. My fingers itched to map them, to learn their patterns until I could navigate them blind.
"Beautiful," I breathed, the word escaping before I could catch it. Xander shivered, though whether from the cold or my reverent tone, I couldn't tell.
The waistband of his jeans sat low on sharp hipbones that could cut glass. I hesitated, my hands hovering over the button. "Okay if I...?"
He nodded, eyes heavy-lidded but trusting. God, that trust. It hit me hard every time.
I kept my movements clinical as I helped him shimmy out of the denim, but nothing could have prepared me for what lay beneath. Black lace hugged the curve of his ass, the delicate fabric a stark contrast to the strength in his thighs. I'd seen him in similar underwear before, always as part of his carefully crafted image. But like this—stripped of pretense, vulnerable and soft—the sight made my mouth water.
"You’re gorgeous," I murmured, running a reverent hand down his flank. His skin was silk-smooth under my calloused palm, and he arched into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.
I knew I should stop touching him. He was vulnerable, coming down from drugs, in no state to consent to anything more than basic care. But I couldn't seem to pull my hands away from all that perfect skin.
"Cold," he whimpered, and I snapped out of my daze.
"Let's get you warm then." I grabbed another of my shirts from the dresser, this one soft with age and washing. "Arms up again, sweet thing."
The sight of them drowning in my clothes shot straight to my cock. The hem hit mid-thigh, making him look somehow more naked than they had in just underwear. More mine.
"You too?" He caught my wrist as I moved to step back. "Please? I... I need..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but I understood. The need for skin contact during come down was well-documented. That's what this was—medical necessity. Not my own desperate desire to feel him against me.
The buzzing of my phone cut through my spiraling thoughts. Algerone's name on the screen made something cold settle in my gut. I extracted myself carefully from Xander's grip, moving to the bathroom where the running water might mask my conversation. This was the part of protection I'd been avoiding: facing the consequences of choosing someone's wellbeing over operational efficiency.
"I trust there's a compelling reason why you’re not on that plane." Algerone's voice was cold, but not angry. Eerily emotionless.
"Xander’s not fit to travel," I said carefully, watching my reflection in the mirror. The man staring back looked more like my father than I wanted to admit. " I made the call to delay twenty-four hours rather than risk compromising the mission."
"I see." The words dripped arctic disdain. "And does this sudden illness have anything to do with his... recreational habits?"
My jaw clenched as I recognized the trap. Of course he knew about the drugs. Probably had people watching us, reporting every detail. The same way my father had monitored my mother's every move under the guise of protection.
"The mission parameters require him to be at his best," I said, instead of acknowledging the accusation. "One day's delay won't impact the timeline significantly."
"You seem to have developed quite the... protective streak toward my son." His voice held that same clinical detachment he used when discussing profit margins. "I trust this won't interfere with operational efficiency?"
The way he said 'my son’ made my hands clench against the sink. Like Xander was just another piece of property to be managed, their identity another inconvenient detail to be ignored. Another beautiful thing to be controlled and preserved.
"You hired me to handle him," I said, measuring each word carefully. "This is me handling him."
"Indeed." A pause stretched between us, heavy with unspoken threats. "Very well. Twenty-four hours. But Valentine?" His voice dropped lower, colder. "Remember that everything has a price. Even... protection."
The line went dead before I could respond. I stared at my reflection, seeing too much of my father in the possessive set of my jaw, the protective fury in my eyes. But there was something different too - a softness my father had never shown, a desire to protect without controlling.
When I returned to the bedroom, Xander had curled into the warm spot I'd left, seeking comfort even in sleep. The sight made something fierce and tender war in my chest.
Still, Algerone's warning echoed in my mind as I slipped back into bed. Everything had a price. But watching Xander burrow instinctively into my pillow, trusting me even in his vulnerability, I knew some things were worth any cost.
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 follow my rules 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 soft 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. Because, unlike my father, I actually cared about Xander's wellbeing. Wanted to protect him, not just possess him.
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 darkness 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.
As his breathing evened out into true sleep, I found myself mapping the scars visible on his skin. Each one told a story of reckless bravado, of fights picked with opponents twice his size, of risks taken without regard for consequences. The scar along his ribs spoke of a knife fight he shouldn't have survived, while the faded marks on his knuckles testified to years of throwing himself into combat with more enthusiasm than sense.
I traced them gently, memorizing their placement, their age, their origins. This was more than just professional curiosity. This was learning to read the language written on his skin, understanding the history carved into his flesh by his own desperate need for... what? Punishment? Validation? The rush of feeling anything at all? Yuri had tried to channel that self-destructive energy into martial arts training, but Xander had just gotten more creative about his risks, falling into drugs, anonymous hookups, deliberately seeking out dangerous situations that would leave different kinds of scars.
The need to protect him rose up again, fierce and overwhelming. Not just from external threats, but from his own impulses. The way he threw himself into danger like he was daring the world to prove he wasn't worth saving. The cavalier attitude toward his own safety that had led to today's ketamine incident. But this wasn't about possession or control. It was about standing between him and his own worst instincts. About being strong enough to catch him when he fell, steady enough to weather his storms, present enough to prove that not everyone leaves.
Maybe that's what real strength was. Not the power to possess, but the courage to protect without controlling. To love without destroying. To hold space for someone's growth without trying to contain it.
The thought settled something in my chest, even as Xander shifted restlessly in his sleep. I tightened my arms around him, offering the anchor he seemed to need. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, its own tests of this fragile thing growing between us. But for now, I could be this for him. I’d be a safe harbor in the storm of his mind, a steady presence to ground him through the darkness.
My father had never understood the difference between protecting and possessing. But maybe that was his gift to me—teaching me exactly what love shouldn't be. Now I had the chance to do better, to be better. To prove that some cycles could be broken, some darkness could be transformed into light.
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, let me past all his carefully constructed defenses. The least I could do was prove worthy of that trust.
Even if that meant fighting my own darkness every step of the way.