18. Seventeen
I watched Xander's transformation from the bathroom doorway, fighting the urge to stake my claim all over again. Every precise movement, every carefully chosen product was part of an intricate ritual that turned vulnerability into armor. After seeing him stripped bare physically and emotionally, watching him rebuild his defenses piece by piece was a study in beautiful contradiction.
The air still held traces of sex and submission, a reminder of how thoroughly I'd claimed him. My marks decorated his thighs and throat, but this wasn't about sex anymore. This was about trust. About letting me see the careful maintenance that went into crafting his presentation. No one else got to witness this transformation. This was a privilege earned by proving I could handle all his contradictions.
"Staring is creepy," he said, but there was no heat in his voice as he massaged something called hyaluronic acid into still-damp skin. His hands shook slightly, the barest tremor that betrayed how raw he still felt. "Even for a professional stalker."
"Profiler," I corrected automatically, moving closer to study his collection of products. Each one was precisely arranged, the labels all facing the same direction. The military precision of it spoke to deeper needs for control, for order, for the ability to craft himself exactly as he chose to be seen. "And I've never seen anyone treat skincare like a military operation before."
His laugh held an edge of hysteria that made my protective instincts flare. "This is vitamin C serum. Brightens dark spots, fights aging." His voice took on that manic quality I was learning to recognize. He was spinning between craving my attention and terrified of being too much. "Then niacinamide for pores, peptides for firmness."
He was talking too fast now, words spilling out like he could keep me interested through sheer force of information. "Moisturizer, sunscreen, then we wait exactly three minutes before primer." His fingers twisted the cap of the serum too tightly, and I caught his wrist before he could crack the expensive bottle.
"Breathe, baby." I pressed against his back, letting him feel my solid presence. "You don't have to perform for me. Not here. Not now."
His breath hitched as he met my eyes in the mirror. The vulnerability there made my chest ache. "I just..." He swallowed hard. "I don’t want you to think I’m high maintenance and run off."
"I'm not running." I pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "I meant what I said this morning. Every part of you is mine now. The pretty parts, the deadly parts, and yes, even the parts that require an hour of skincare."
He laughed, but some of the manic energy eased from his posture. "You say that now. Wait until you see my evening routine."
I watched Xander layer product after product, fascinated by the technical precision they brought to something I'd always taken for granted. "You do this every day?"
"Twice a day." They tilted their head, examining their skin in the magnifying mirror. The movement exposed the marks I'd left on their throat, and possessive satisfaction curled in my gut. "Morning and night. Though the evening routine is more intense. Double cleanse, exfoliation, retinol..."
He caught my expression and that familiar mask of provocative confidence slipped back into place. "What, you thought this skin maintained itself?"
"Honestly? Never thought about it." I traced one of the bruises I'd left, watching his pupils dilate at the possessive touch. "My ex-wives had their routines, but I never..." I trailed off, realizing how many intimacies I'd missed in my previous marriages. How many walls I'd maintained out of some misguided notion of privacy.
"Never watched?" Those impossible eyes met mine in the mirror. "Or never cared to understand?"
The question hit deeper than intended, making me examine decades of careful distance. "Both, maybe. It was their private time. Their space." I moved closer, drawn by the precise way he patted something called "essence" into his skin. "This is different."
"Because I'm not your wife?" The edge in his voice had nothing to do with gender and everything to do with the uncertainty that always lurked beneath his carefully maintained surface. His hands shook slightly as he reached for the next product.
"Because you're you." I caught their wrist gently, stilling the tremor. "Because everything you do fascinates me. The way you turn daily rituals into tactical advantages. The precision you bring to something as simple as skincare."
Their breath hitched, but they didn't pull away. Something dark and hungry unfurled in my chest at their trust. Twenty years of certainty about my sexuality had crumbled in the face of their magnetic presence, the deliberate way they'd challenged me, tested me, before choosing to submit. Their surrender was more intoxicating because we both knew how rarely they gave up control.
"It's not simple," they whispered, voice cracking. "Nothing about this is simple."
"I know." I released his wrist, letting him resume his routine. "That's why I'm watching. I want to understand all of it. The maintenance requirements you thought would scare me off. The rituals that make you feel secure. The armor you build, piece by piece."
The vulnerability in his voice made my chest tight. I stepped closer, letting him feel my presence without interrupting his routine. "That looks expensive."
His hands worked the product into his skin with practiced motions. "It is. This little bottle?" He held up what looked like liquid gold in crystal. "Three hundred euros. And it only lasts like a month."
"Let me buy your next set," I said without hesitation. The offer felt natural, another way to take care of what was mine.
He paused, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to." My hand found his hip, steadying us both. "If this is what makes you feel like you, then it's worth every penny."
His smile in the mirror was soft, genuine in a way his usual masks weren't. "You really mean that, don't you?"
“Of course I do,” I said.
Xander stared at me for a long moment before turning back to the mirror. “Okay, I’ll make you a list. But no complaints when you drop a couple grand at once. I’m serious. The good stuff isn’t cheap.”
While he worked through his skincare routine, I began laying out our equipment for the day. Each weapon needed to be carefully concealed, the placements precise to allow quick access without compromising his cover. The ceramic blade went against his inner thigh, positioned so the slit in his dress would provide easy access. The garrote wire was disguised as a delicate bracelet, the ends weighted with what appeared to be decorative charms.
"Can I ask you something?" I kept my voice gentle, watching him work vitamin C serum into his skin while I checked the edge on a second blade. "Something that might sound ignorant, but I want to understand."
Xander's eyes met mine in the mirror. "You want to know why I can't just be a feminine man."
The directness caught me off guard. I set down the knife I'd been examining. "I... yeah. I mean, why did there need to be a whole new gender? Men can wear dresses, can wear makeup. Why isn't that enough?"
His hands stilled for a moment before resuming their practiced movements. "It's not new. Non-binary people have existed in cultures throughout history. Two-spirit people in Native American tribes, Hijra in South Asia, Fa'afafine in Samoa." He reached for his moisturizer. "Western culture just forgot there were options besides male and female."
"Okay, but..." I struggled to frame the question respectfully while loading a slim pistol with subsonic rounds. "What makes it different from just being gender non-conforming? From being a man who rejects masculine stereotypes?"
"Because I'm not a man rejecting masculinity." They turned to face me fully. "I'm someone who exists outside that whole binary system. It's not about clothes or makeup. Those are expressions, not identity. It's about who I am at my core."
"I don't understand," I admitted, setting aside the gun to give him my full attention.
"Think of it this way," he said, turning back to apply his sunscreen. "When you look in the mirror, you know you're a man, right? Not because of your body or your clothes, but because that identity feels right to you?"
I nodded, watching him check the concealment of the thigh holster.
"Well, when I look in the mirror, neither 'man' nor 'woman' feels right. It's like... being handed a form with only two boxes to check, and knowing neither one fits you. Not because you're rejecting the boxes, but because your truth exists outside them completely."
The analogy helped, but I still had questions as I helped him adjust the knife sheath. "But you present femininely. You use he/they pronouns. Isn't that contradictory?"
"Gender is performance art," he said, carefully blending his primer. His eyes lit up with that intensity he got when discussing fashion or combat, the look of an artist describing their medium. "Some people perform masculinity, some perform femininity. Me?" A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "I'm creating something entirely new. My gender isn't male or female. It's a masterpiece I'm constantly refining. The clothes, the pronouns, they're just different brushstrokes in a larger work of art."
"So when you wear dresses and makeup..."
"Sometimes it's tactical. I use people's assumptions against them. Sometimes it's because I like pretty things. Sometimes it's pure spite." His smile turned sharp as he checked the line of his dress, making sure it concealed everything while still allowing access. "But none of that defines my gender. I'd still be non-binary in combat boots and a tactical vest."
I moved closer, drawn by the intensity in his voice. "And the dysphoria you mentioned? About body hair?"
"That's... complicated." He focused intently on blending his foundation. "Some non-binary people have physical dysphoria, some don't. For me, body hair feels wrong. Makes my skin crawl. But that's my experience. It's not universal."
"Thank you," I said quietly. "For explaining. For being patient with my ignorance."
His eyes met mine in the mirror again. "You're trying to understand. That's more than most people do." His smile softened. "Besides, you claimed this body pretty thoroughly this morning. Figured you deserved to understand who you were claiming."
I caught his wrist gently, turning him back to face me. "I knew exactly who I was claiming." I held his gaze, letting him see my certainty. "A beautiful, deadly, complicated person who transcends every category I thought I understood. My Xander."
His breath hitched, pupils dilating. But before he could respond, I nodded at his extensive collection of products. "Now, are you going to explain what all these things do, or do I have to guess?"
The tension broke as he laughed. "God, you really are new to this, aren't you?" But he started explaining as he worked, his voice taking on that passionate quality he usually reserved for discussing fashion or combat techniques. Each product was a different medium in his artistic arsenal: primers creating the perfect base, contour powders sculpting light and shadow, highlights adding strategic brilliance. I watched him section and style his hair with the precision of a sculptor, each strand deliberately placed to create an effect that looked effortlessly tousled but was, in fact, carefully crafted performance art.
Together, we went through final weapons checks, transforming each piece of tactical gear into part of his performance. A second blade nestled at the small of his back, the sheath custom-made to look like part of the dress's architecture. Each weapon placement was choreographed like a dance move, every line of concealment considered like a brushstroke in his deadly masterpiece. One wrong angle, one visible tell, and the illusion would shatter.
"The marketing team at Lucky Losers would kill for footage of this," I mused, watching him check the final effect. "The world's deadliest honey trap getting ready for a night out."
"Quit profiling me." But there was no heat in Xander's voice as he adjusted the knife strapped to his thigh. "I can hear your behavioral analysis brain whirring from here."
I moved behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin but not quite touching. "Can't help it. Twenty years of training doesn't just turn off." My eyes met his in the mirror. "Especially not when the subject is so fascinating."
“Smile for the camera, then.” Xander snapped a quick selfie in the hotel mirror and typed out a caption.
"Mr. West? Mr. Verity?" a thickly accented voice called through the door. "Mr. Dubois requests your presence."
I caught the way Xander's hands froze on his phone screen, the slight hitch in his breathing. "Who's Dubois?" I kept my voice low. Something about that name had shaken my usually unflappable partner.
"Head of the French bratva," Xander said quietly, his voice tight as he checked his weapons with trembling hands. There was something personal in his reaction, something that went beyond professional concern.
The Bratva? The people who’d hired us through Lucky Losers? Why the hell was our client making direct contact?
Another knock, harder this time. "We have been instructed not to keep Mr. Dubois waiting."
I reached for my shoulder holster, but Xander stopped me with a sharp look. "Won't help. If Nikolai has sent his men, the hotel's already surrounded." His smile was bitter as he applied one final coat of deep red to his lips. "When he sends an invitation, attendance isn't optional."
"You know him." It wasn't a question. The tremor in Xander's hands, the way he'd said Nikolai instead of Dubois… There was history there.
"He’s my cousin." Xander's voice was carefully neutral, but I caught how his fingers tightened on his lipstick.
I wanted to press further, but Xander opened the door before I could, revealing two massive men in expensive suits that barely contained their muscle mass. I recognized the type from my days working in organized crime. Bratva enforcers, the kind who broke things for a living.
"Mr. Dubois sends his regards," the larger one said, his French accent at odds with his Russian features. "His car is waiting."
It wasn't a request. I watched Xander's mask slip fully into place, all deadly grace and calculated beauty. "How thoughtful of Nikolai to send an escort." His tone was pure ice, but I caught the slight tremor in his hands. "Though really, Anton, the show of force is unnecessary."
The enforcer—Anton—didn't smile. "Mr. Dubois's orders, Mr. West." The use of Xander's cover name was pointed, deliberate. "Recent events have made him... particular about security."
I assessed the situation. The enforcers' positioning, the casual display of weapons beneath designer suits, the way they'd breached our security without triggering any alarms. This wasn't just a show of force. This was a power play by someone who knew exactly who we were and didn't care about maintaining appearances.
The walk through the hotel was a masterclass in power dynamics. Anton and his partner had positioned themselves perfectly. They stayed close enough to interfere if we tried anything, but maintained enough distance to avoid drawing attention. Two more men fell into step behind us, cutting off any escape routes while appearing to casual observers like a standard security detail.
A sleek black Mercedes waited at the curb, engine running. The windows were tinted dark enough to be illegal in France, though I doubted that bothered the head of the French bratva much. Two more identical vehicles bracketed it, while a third idled at the corner. They were controlling approach vectors while seemingly random in their placement.
"If you please, Mr. Verity," Anton gestured to the open door with exaggerated formality. The contrast between his polite words and the implicit threat in his posture was perfectly calculated. Everything about this extraction had been choreographed to demonstrate power while maintaining a veneer of civility.
As we slid into the plush leather interior, I kept my hand on Xander's lower back as a reminder that whatever game Dubois was playing, he wasn't facing it alone. The Russian consortium had hired Lucky Losers specifically to maintain deniability. Direct contact from someone this high up in the bratva hierarchy threatened to expose not just our mission, but potentially compromise years of carefully maintained relationships between criminal enterprises.
I squeezed Xander's hand once, quick and reassuring, before schooling my features into professional neutrality. The car pulled away from the curb, our escort vehicles falling into perfect formation. Through the tinted windows, Paris glittered with deceptive beauty, but my focus was entirely on Xander. The careful way he held himself, the fact that his own cousin, the head of the French bratva, had sent armed men to collect us… Nothing about this situation sat right.
The weapons we'd so carefully placed during our routine felt inadequate now, but they were all we had.
More concerning was how this development threatened our entire operation. Direct contact from the head of the French bratva wasn't just a breach of protocol. It was the kind of family entanglement that got people killed. I'd seen enough cases go sideways when personal relationships complicated professional hits.
I had claimed him this morning, marked him as mine in every way that mattered. Now his cousin—someone who clearly held enough power to make Xander nervous despite their blood connection—was inserting himself into our mission. The possessive darkness I'd been fighting all morning rose up again, but this time, it wasn't about sex. This was about protecting what was mine, even from his own family.
Xander's fingers tightened around mine as we turned onto a narrow side street, heading deeper into the parts of Paris tourists never saw. The mission brief had mentioned Russian consortium backing, but nothing about the head of the French bratva being Xander's cousin. That kind of critical intelligence shouldn't have been withheld. The growing certainty that we were being drawn into complex family politics made the professional hit we'd prepared for seem almost simple in comparison.
Time to find out exactly why Nikolai Dubois had decided family connections trumped operational security, and what that meant for our mission, and for us.