Prologue #2
"Breathe through it, sir," I instructed, not stopping the necessary work. "The restriction needs to be released."
For a moment, I thought he might tell me to stop. His hands clenched the edges of the table, knuckles white with strain. But then he forced his body to relax, surrendering in a way that sent an unexpected spike of warmth through my chest.
I had touched him every day for over a year and seen him at his most vulnerable, unable to walk, wracked with pain, dependent on me for basic needs.
Through it all, I’d maintained a perfect professional distance.
But sometimes, in moments like this, when his body yielded to my care, I remembered other surrenders that might have been.
Singapore. Twenty years ago. A mission gone wrong, too much whiskey in a hotel room, Algerone looking at me with heat in his eyes that had nothing to do with anger.
His hand on my thigh, moving higher, and the words I'd said that changed everything: "You need to focus on the empire, not this. Not me."
This was the cruelest irony of my penance. I was finally touching him the way I'd denied us both in Singapore, but now it was obligation, not desire. The perfect punishment for my crimes.
What I’d done to Imogen Duchaucis was unforgiveable. I had no idea that her already fragile mental state was even worse after delivering Algerone's children. How could I have known? All I knew was that she was an obstacle to the future I’d decided was more important than her.
How could I have known she was suffering from schizophrenia and postpartum psychosis? How could I have known she'd slit her wrists in that bathtub? The answer was simple: if I'd seen her as a person instead of a romantic rival, it would’ve been clear.
But I hadn't, and because of my willful blindness, those boys had grown up as strangers, and Algerone had missed the one chance he'd ever have to be a father.
For twenty years I kept that secret. Twenty years of watching Algerone build an empire while his children grew up believing they were unwanted. That was what Xavier had forced me to confess eighteen months ago. That was what Algerone would never forgive.
"Turn over, please," I said when I'd finished with his back.
He moved carefully, mindful of his hip, settling onto his back, eyes closed. He always closed them for this part, unable or unwilling to risk meeting my gaze while I worked on his chest, his abdomen, the front of his thighs.
I started with his chest, working through the pectorals that had lost definition during recovery.
My hands moved methodically, but my mind tracked every detail.
The way his breathing changed when I worked near his ribs, the slight flex of his abs when I pressed too close to his sides, the heat of his skin gradually warming under my touch.
"Your range of motion has improved," I observed, carefully rotating his shoulder through its full arc. "The exercises are helping."
Still no response, but I hadn't expected one. I continued my work in silence, down to his abdomen where more surgical scars created a map of survival. Then to his legs, starting with the right, which had escaped major damage.
The left leg was different. The femur had been fractured in three places, the knee reconstructed.
I worked with extra care here, knowing how much residual pain lived in these rebuilt bones and reattached tendons.
My hands moved up his thigh, working the quadriceps that had fought so hard to return to strength.
A sound from the doorway made us both freeze.
"Xavier's here," a voice announced. Reid, Algerone's security chief, had his own access to the penthouse. "Says it's urgent."
Algerone's eyes snapped open, meeting mine for the first time in weeks. I expected rage, but there was something else there. Embarrassment at being seen like this? Or something more complicated?
"Send him up," Algerone said, already moving to sit.
I offered assistance, then stopped when he glared at me. He swung his legs over the side of the table, reaching for the robe I'd placed nearby. His movements were stiff, carefully controlled to hide the pain I knew he endured.
"That's enough for today," he said, not looking at me.
"Sir, we haven't completed..."
"I said enough."
The dismissal was clear, but before I could gather my supplies, he spoke again.
"I'm going back."
I froze, hands still holding the massage oil. "Sir?"
"To Lucky Losers. Tomorrow. I'm ready."
My heart stuttered, and my palms began to sweat, though I wasn’t sure if that was due to nerves or excitement.
Some part of me still held out hope that, if he came back, if we went back to work as normal, maybe we could be normal again.
I didn’t dare hope for forgiveness—not after what I’d done—but normal? Normal I could still wish for.
“Sir,” I began carefully, “Doctor Pierce hasn’t cleared you for work yet.”
“I don’t care,” he snarled and yanked the robe closed. “I’ve spent eighteen months rotting in here, taking healing baths, eating organic vegetables, enduring these massages and endless pills and injections. Eighteen fucking months.”
He rounded on me, and my heart jumped into my throat. In all that time, this was the most he’d ever said to me since he found out the truth.
“I’m not going to get any better,” he said firmly.
I swallowed and stepped forward. “There are other things we could—”
Algerone picked up his cane and slammed it against the hardwood. “I said I’m going back, Maxime.”
He was furious, but my knees still wanted to melt whenever he said my name.
I forced myself to take a deep breath and nodded. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."
"You'll handle it as you see fit." He stood, testing his weight on the damaged hip. "You always do."
"The Pentagon meeting," I managed. "General Kirsch has been waiting..."
"Set it for Monday. Full presentation of the Banshee project." He finally looked me in the eyes, and the impact stole my breath. "You'll attend, of course. As my COO."
My COO. Not just as the caretaker he'd tolerated. Not just as the ghost who'd haunted his recovery. But in my official capacity, at his side where I'd always been. Where I'd thought I'd never be permitted again.
"Of course, sir," I said, though my voice came out thin and reedy.
Xavier arrived then, his presence filling the doorway. Barely contained energy radiated from him. His orange and blue hair was more vivid than last time, his green eyes so like his father's.
I flushed as he took in my oil-slicked hands, and the way his father was glaring at me.
"Maxime," Xavier said, his tone carefully neutral. We'd reached a détente of sorts over the months. Him recognizing that Lucky Losers needed me, me accepting that I'd forever be the man who'd hidden him from his father. "Still playing nurse?"
"Still playing vigilante?" I countered, falling into our established rhythm.
"Boys," Algerone said, and we both turned to him. The word was wrong. Neither of us were boys, but it carried an odd fondness that made my chest ache. "What's the emergency?"
"Shaw," Xavier said, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "I have confirmation he’s been testing his own sonic weapon."
Gideon Shaw. Of course. The vulture had been circling since news of Algerone's injuries had leaked, testing Lucky Losers' defenses, probing for weakness. I'd fended off most of his advances, but some had slipped through.
"And how did his tests go?" Algerone asked cautiously.
“Complete failure.” Xavier stepped forward, holding out a thick dossier. “He did a demo for the Russians three days ago, and all reports indicate he’s at least eighteen months from having a working prototype.”
"Double the lab security," Algerone ordered, already moving toward his bedroom to dress. "Lock down the Banshee project."
I frowned. “Do you think he’d try corporate espionage?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Algerone muttered. “Make sure everything’s secure, Xavier.”
Xavier nodded, shot one more glare at me, and left. I remained in the therapy room slowly packing my supplies. The massage oil went back into my medical bag. The table would stay. He'd still need treatment, though perhaps from an actual therapist now instead of the man who'd betrayed him.
The shower was running in the master suite. In thirty minutes, he'd emerge dressed in one of his perfect suits, every inch the CEO of Lucky Losers Inc. He'd walk into that building tomorrow and reclaim his throne, and everyone would pretend the last eighteen months hadn't happened.
But they had happened. Every injection I'd administered. Every therapy session I'd overseen. Every night I'd sat beside his bed when the pain was too severe for sleep, not touching, not speaking, just being there because even his hatred was preferable to his absence.
I ran my fingers over the massage table.
It was still warm from his body. I loved him.
I’d loved him for thirty-two years, and I would love him until my last breath, regardless of whether he ever forgave me.
The eighteen months of penance hadn't changed that.
If anything, seeing him vulnerable, watching him fight to rebuild himself, had only deepened my devotion.
"Maxime," Algerone called, and I went to him, as I always had. As I always would.