Chapter 12 Eleven
The Pentagon call ran long. Kirsch wanted assurances I couldn't give, timelines I couldn't guarantee, and details about Shaw's theft that I wasn't prepared to share with a man whose office leaked like a sieve. By the time I ended the call, my hip was screaming and my patience was gone.
Maxime stood in my doorway, tablet in hand, waiting for instructions. He'd been there for the last forty minutes of the call, silent and attentive, ready to pull up whatever document I needed.
"The tactical briefing for Reid's team," I said. "Have it ready by midnight. We move as soon as we have Shaw's location."
"Of course." He made a note on his tablet. "Anything else?"
I studied him for a long moment. The perfect posture. The neutral expression. The way he held himself like a man expecting nothing.
"Go to the penthouse," I said. "Wait for me in the bedroom. Naked. On your knees."
Something flickered in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Or hunger. He controlled it instantly.
"Yes, sir."
He left without another word. I watched him go, already imagining what I'd do to him when I arrived.
But first, business.
Maxime's footsteps faded down the corridor.
I savored a moment of anticipation before turning to Xavier's analysis of the Banshee security architecture.
My son's brilliance shone through every line of code.
The prototype would remain inert without both my biometric signature and the modified ace of spades from my personal deck.
The symmetry was perfect. The very card that had altered the trajectory of my life now safeguarded my company's most valuable asset.
I approached the window, surveying Cincinnati's skyline.
Below, tiny figures scurried through their insignificant lives, blind to the strategic maneuvers unfolding above them.
Shaw believed he'd secured a decisive advantage by acquiring the Banshee prototype, not realizing he'd stolen nothing but an exquisitely crafted paperweight.
"Sir, the Pentagon is expressing considerable concern regarding tomorrow's meeting," Reid reported when he called.
"Confirm the appointment. Maxime has prepared our strategic response. Follow his directives precisely."
I ended the call, my mind plotting our next moves. Shaw might eventually reverse-engineer critical components, but Xavier's security system bought us precious time.
My phone vibrated again. Xavier.
"Found something," he reported, voice tight with excitement. "When I built the security protocols, I embedded a tracking algorithm that activates whenever anyone attempts to bypass authentication."
"And?"
"Someone has been attempting to override the system for approximately six hours. Multiple failed attempts originating from Vancouver. I've narrowed the location to the industrial district but need more time to find the precise warehouse."
"You've got six hours," I said. "Call me the second you have something solid."
I ended the call as satisfaction coursed through my veins. Every failed attempt on Shaw's part drew us closer to his location.
I settled into my leather executive chair, the supple material creaking under my weight.
My injured leg stretched beneath the polished mahogany, searching for comfort it would never find.
The Saudi defense minister's crystal paperweight caught the afternoon light as I rolled it between my fingers and activated the secure line to Shaw.
"GidTech Industries, Mr. Shaw's office." A crisp female voice answered on the second ring.
"Algerone Caisse-Etremont for Gideon Shaw. Tell him it's regarding his recent acquisition from Lucky Losers."
A pause. "Please hold."
Bach filtered through the line for precisely seventeen seconds before the line clicked.
"Algerone," Shaw answered with manufactured warmth. "I was wondering when you'd call."
"Save the small talk, Shaw. You took something of mine."
"Many things change hands in our business. Finders keepers, as they say."
"Return the prototype, and maybe I won't peel your skin off inch by inch."
"Big talk from a man who just lost his golden goose," Shaw shot back. "The Pentagon suits will shit themselves when they find out you can't deliver on that six-billion-dollar promise."
I lifted the crystal paperweight, watching fractals of color scatter across my desk. "So how's Dr. Hardin working out? Got that prototype up and running yet?"
A slight hesitation betrayed his uncertainty. "Dr. Hardin is settling in nicely. She finds our resources... adequate."
"'Adequate.' Not 'working.' Interesting choice of words."
"Just some technical hiccups. Nothing a scientist of her caliber can't handle."
"Hiccups, huh? How many times have you tried to crack it now? Six attempts? Seven?" I let amusement thread through my voice. "Must be frustrating, watching that pretty toy refuse to work. And Vancouver's lovely this time of year, isn't it? Not too rainy."
His sharp inhalation confirmed Xavier's intelligence. I'd hit the target.
"You're more resourceful than I expected," Shaw conceded. "But it changes nothing. I have the prototype, your chief scientist, and enough dirt on your sons to bury them if it reaches the feds."
"First you touch what's mine. Now you threaten my sons." I set the paperweight down. "You've picked the wrong family to threaten, Shaw. My boys were raised by a serial killer and the Volkovs' top body disposal expert. You really want to test them?"
"Threats won't get your toy back."
"I don't need threats. I just need time. And you handed it to me by stealing tech you can't even turn on."
"What do you want?" Shaw finally asked.
I rose from my chair, ignoring the sharp pain shooting through my damaged leg. "I want my prototype back. I want Hardin. And I want you to apologize for touching what's mine."
"Maxime," Shaw said, voice dropping lower. "That's what this is really about, isn't it? Your pretty little lapdog."
"You kissed him," I growled, my voice barely human. "You put your poison in his mouth."
"He tasted sweet," Shaw taunted. "So eager to please. Does he get on his knees for you too? Beg for your approval?"
My fingers tightened around the phone until the casing emitted a warning creak. My other hand crushed the crystal paperweight, fragments penetrating my palm as blood spread across polished mahogany.
"When I find you, I'm going to show you pain you didn't know existed."
Shaw laughed. "There he is. The real Algerone finally shows up."
I terminated the connection. The shattered paperweight dripped blood across important documents. I barely registered the pain as crimson stained expense reports and military contracts.
Shaw had unwittingly revealed more than intended.
I jabbed the intercom. "Tell Reid to prep a team for Vancouver. Full tactical. Wheels up in three hours."
The penthouse occupied the entire top floor of Spade Tower. I moved through the darkened living room, the silver tip of my cane tapping a measured rhythm against marble. My rage at Shaw had crystallized into something colder and more focused.
A thin line of golden light emerged from beneath the bedroom door.
For years, I'd maintained a deliberate distance between us, despite the electric current that surged whenever we occupied the same space.
Now, having finally claimed him once, I found the concept of returning to that careful separation impossible.
I pushed the door open.
Maxime knelt beside the bed precisely as instructed, posture immaculate, hands resting palms-upward on his thighs. The marks I'd previously left remained visible against his throat.
He maintained perfect stillness upon my entrance.
"How long have you been in this position?" I circled him slowly.
"Thirty-seven minutes, sir." His voice betrayed no discomfort.
"Look at me."
He raised his head, dark eyes meeting mine directly. No shame. No hesitation.
I reached down, fingers tracing the marks on his throat. His skin jumped under my touch.
"These are fading," I murmured, pressing against a particularly vivid bruise. His pupils dilated instantly. "I promised to refresh them."
"Yes, sir."
"Stand up."
He rose in a single fluid motion. His cock hardened as I looked at him, no touch needed.
"You spoke with Shaw," he said, eyes flicking to the blood crusted between my fingers.
"He mentioned you. Said you tasted sweet." My hand found his throat, fingers lining up perfectly with the marks I'd left before. "The thought of his mouth on yours makes me need to erase every trace of him."
"Please," he whispered, leaning into my grip. "There's only you now. Only ever you."
I walked him backward until his legs hit the bed. "Lie down. Arms above your head."
He complied instantly, stretching out on the black silk sheets. I removed my jacket and shirt but left my pants on.
"I've been thinking about how to mark you," I said, trailing my fingers over his chest. "Something more entertaining than bruises."
"What did you have in mind?"
I released him and crossed to the leather armchair in the corner. From beside the chair, I retrieved a crystal decanter and poured myself a measure of whiskey before reaching for what lay on the side table.
The riding crop was Italian leather, expertly crafted with a braided handle that fit my palm perfectly. It made a satisfying sound as I slapped it lightly against my open palm.
Disappointment flickered across Maxime's face, quickly masked.
"Were you hoping for something else?" I asked.
"I assumed you wanted to leave a lasting mark."
"All in good time. Tonight, I want entertainment." I tapped the crop against my thigh. "Touch yourself. Show me how you pleasure yourself when you're alone."
Color flooded his cheeks, but his hand moved to his cock without hesitation.
"Slower," I instructed. "Tell me what you think about when you're alone."
"You," he admitted, his voice rough. "Always you. Your hands. Your mouth. The way you look at me across conference tables when no one else is watching."
"And now? What are you thinking about now?"
His eyes fixed on the crop. "How much it will hurt. Where you'll use it. If you'll let me come afterward."
"Edge yourself. Take yourself to the brink, then stop."
His breathing grew labored as he worked himself toward climax. When his thighs began to tremble, I knew he was close.
"Stop."
His hand froze instantly. A groan escaped him, but he didn't argue. He simply obeyed, his cock throbbing against his abdomen.
I set my glass aside and moved toward the bed.
"Spread your legs. Wider."
He complied immediately.
The first touch of the crop was gentle, almost a caress as I traced it up the inside of his thigh. His muscles jumped beneath the leather.
"You enjoy pain," I observed. "Not agony. But a certain kind of hurt."
"Yes," he admitted.
"Why?"
He considered carefully. "It grounds me. Simplifies everything. When I hurt for you, there's nothing else. Just you and me and the pain connecting us."
I rewarded him with a sharp tap against his inner thigh, hard enough to leave a vivid red mark. His cock twitched in response.
I delivered a series of light taps to his perineum. His eyes clouded, unfocused. Tap. A sharp intake of breath. Tap. His lips parted. Tap. His stomach muscles contracted. Each response revealed a different facet of his surrender.
"Do you trust me?" I asked.
"Yes." No hesitation, though his voice cracked.
The crop landed with precise control across his balls. His entire body jerked, a sharp cry escaping before he could contain it. I watched his face carefully, caught the initial flash of genuine pain. Then came the conscious choice. The decision to accept it for me.
"More?"
"Yes," he breathed. “If it pleases you.”
I struck again, harder. His back arched, mouth opening in a silent scream. When his body settled, I noticed the first signs of the transition. His eyes lost their sharp focus. His breathing steadied into a deeper rhythm.
A third strike. This time, instead of fighting against it, he melted into the pain. His thighs relaxed. His fingers uncurled from the sheets.
"That's it," I murmured. "Let go."
The fourth strike was harder. His body accepted it, absorbed it. A soft sound escaped him, something deeper than a moan. His head rolled to the side, eyes half-lidded, gazing at something beyond the room.
I ran my palm over his reddened skin. "Look at me, Maxime."
It took several seconds for him to comply. When his eyes found mine, they were glassy and unfocused.
I set the crop aside and crawled onto the bed beside him. When I wrapped my hand around his cock, his whole body shuddered.
"You've pleased me," I told him. "Now you can come."
I stroked him quickly, efficiently, until his body arched beneath my hand, a cry torn from his throat as thick ropes of cum erupted over my fist. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
I kept stroking through each pulse, each wave. His body shook with the force of his release.
And I waited.
His eyes found mine, swimming with tears and need. His lips parted.
"Thank you, sir."
Three words. That's all he had. Not "stay with me." Not "hold me." Not even my name. Just gratitude. Just acceptance.
I released his softening cock and rose from the bed. Then, I crossed to the bathroom and washed his release from my fingers while my reflection stared back at me.
He'd given me everything tonight. His body, his dignity, his tears. And he'd asked for nothing. Demanded nothing. Thirty-two years, and the man still didn't understand what I wanted from him.
Maybe he never would.
When I returned to the bedroom, he was still sprawled where I'd left him. Boneless. Wrecked.
I picked up my shirt from the floor.
"Algerone?" His voice cracked.
"Clean yourself up." I fastened the buttons without looking at him. "We’re leaving for Vancouver in two hours."
Silence. Then the rustle of sheets.
"I... yes. Of course."
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
"Sir? Did I do something wrong?"
The question hung there. Such a Maxime question. Always worried about failing me. Never worried about what he deserved.
"Get dressed and ready to leave, Maxime."
I pulled the door shut behind me.
The living room was dark. I stood at the window, watching Cincinnati glitter forty stories below.
He would clean himself up, prepare the briefing and appear looking immaculate, like nothing had happened. He wouldn't ask why I had left. Wouldn't demand anything. That's what Maxime did.
He had never pushed for acknowledgment. Never once did he say, "I'm doing this because I love you, and you owe me something in return."
I'd thought tonight might crack him open. Thought the subspace might strip away enough of his control that he'd finally reach for what he wanted. Finally, fight for it.
Instead, he thanked me.
I drained the whiskey and headed for my study. I was starting to wonder if he even knew how to fight for himself anymore. Or if I'd trained that out of him decades ago.