Chapter 30
The sedan moved through Cincinnati's wet streets below the speed limit. Xavier drove with white knuckles on the steering wheel. Xander strained against their seatbelt, drumming their fingers on the dash. Xion sat completely still, arms crossed.
Algerone's hand on my thigh possessed weight beyond flesh and bone.
It was a claim, a warning, and a promise all at once.
The heat burned through expensive wool. We still carried the scent of violence on our skin—Shaw's blood and my near-death and the feral thing Algerone had become when he thought I'd stopped breathing.
"Hey Max,” Xander started, “how's it feel knowing Dad literally beat a man to death with his cane because he thought you were dead? That's some Romeo and Juliet shit, except with more spinal fluid."
"Xander." Xavier's warning came sharp.
"What? We're all thinking it. Shaw's brains painted that marble like a Pollock." They leaned forward, jewelry jingling. "Though I gotta say, I’m sad I didn’t get to watch Maxime play dead."
Algerone's fingers tightened on my thigh hard enough to bruise. This was the first acknowledgment since Macau that he hadn't forgotten.
"Your daddy issues are showing," I said quietly.
Xander's laugh came out sharp as glass. "Pot, meet kettle."
His house materialized through the rain, not the steel and glass monument of Spade Tower but something real, something that smelled like his cologne and my cooking and the gunpowder residue we'd never quite scrubbed from our skin.
"Out," Algerone ordered as Xavier killed the engine. "All of you."
"But we were just getting to the good part," Xander protested. "The part where you two fuck away the trauma of almost losing each other. Again."
"Get out," Algerone repeated.
Xander's grin widened. "Fine, fine. We know when we're not wanted." They climbed out, followed by the others. Xavier paused at the window, meeting my gaze briefly before turning away. I filed the expression as concern or calculation, though with Xavier the distinction always blurred.
Xander waved as they headed for their parked cars.
Then we were alone, rain drumming against glass, the car still ticking with residual heat. I counted the seconds between ticks.
"Inside," he finally commanded. "We have things to discuss."
I followed him through the rain, both of us moving slowly. His cane clicked against the wet pavement. With each breath, my ribs screamed from Shaw's bullet, the fresh pain awakening echoes of Xander's earlier assault.
Inside, I moved to the bar without being asked, reaching for the Macallan.
Some rituals transcended circumstance. A lifetime of anticipating his needs guided my hands as I poured two crystal tumblers.
My fingers remained steady despite my pain.
They'd been steady when I'd played dead in Macau too.
That's what separated us from ordinary people.
We could pour whiskey and orchestrate death with equal focus.
Algerone watched me, favoring his right leg more than he'd admit. The fight with Shaw had cost him, maybe permanently, another scar for his collection and another price paid for survival.
"Sit your ass down before you fall down," he said as I handed him his glass.
I folded onto the leather sofa. The position sent fire through my sternum, but I kept my expression neutral.
"We need to discuss what happens now." He remained standing, using the bar for support rather than admitting weakness. "About forgiveness. About what you did. About what we are."
"Algerone..."
"Shut up. I'm talking."
I shut up.
"I understand why you did what you did with Imogen." He moved closer. "I even understand the logic. You'd built your entire existence around serving me. Around being indispensable. Children would have changed that dynamic. Maybe made you... less essential."
"Yes." No point in denying what we both knew.
"Here's the thing, Maxime." He stood directly in front of me now, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "I'm still fucking furious. Part of me wants to hurt you the way you hurt me. It wants to take twenty years from you in return. Blood for blood. Old Testament justice."
My pulse hammered, but I didn't move and didn't defend myself. This was penance, and I'd take whatever he chose to deliver.
"But when I thought Shaw had killed you.
.." His jaw clenched. "I became something I'd buried.
Not Algerone Caisse-Etremont, CEO and strategist. Just Jackson Wheeler with better clothes and the same capacity for violence.
The same possessive rage that made me cave in Shane's skull when I was seventeen. "
"I know," I whispered. "I'm sorry. For making you become that. For lying there while..."
"While I grieved you." His voice cracked slightly. "While I thought I'd lost the one thing I couldn't survive losing."
"I know." The words were inadequate. "It was cruel. Even if it was tactical."
"Especially because it was tactical." He set his glass aside, both hands gripping his cane now. "That's what we do, isn't it? Turn everything into strategy. Even grief. Even loss."
"So here's our truth." His green eyes bored into mine.
"I choose you anyway. Not because I forgive you.
Not because love conquers all or any of that horseshit.
But because the alternative would require me to become someone I'm not.
Someone who can let go. And we both know I'm too fucked up for that. "
The honesty of it knocked the air from my lungs more effectively than Shaw's bullet.
"This is what we are now," he continued. "Scarred. Angry. Choosing each other daily despite the damage. Can you live with that? Knowing I wake up pissed about what you took from me, then choose you anyway because I'm too twisted to do anything else?"
"Yes," I managed. "Because I'm just as twisted. I'd rather have your anger than anyone else's love. Because the day we met, I decided you were worth any price, and that hasn't changed."
"Christ." He laughed, but it held no humor. "We really are fucked up."
"Completely," I agreed.
The hard line of his jaw softened, and the tension in his shoulders eased. He'd made his choice. His hand left the cane, moving to cup my face gently.
"I need to touch you," he said quietly. "Need to know you're real. That you're here. That I didn't lose you in that fucking marble office."
I leaned into his palm. "I'm here. I'm sorry. I'm here."
His thumb traced my cheekbone, and his hand trembled slightly. The great Algerone Caisse-Etremont, shaking with the aftershock of almost losing what he couldn't name but couldn't live without.
His other hand moved to my chest, pressing gently through the fabric of my shirt. I couldn't suppress a flinch when his fingers found the epicenter of Shaw's bullet impact.
"Your ribs," he said, the words rough. "The vest caught it, but the impact still did damage."
"The bruising is severe. Xander's assault left more damage underneath. I'm a patchwork of injuries right now."
His jaw tightened. "Show me."
I stood carefully, setting the whiskey aside. My fingers worked the buttons of my shirt, each movement sending spikes through bruised ribs. He helped me ease the fabric off, his sharp intake of breath audible at the revealed damage.
The bruising from Shaw's bullet spread across my sternum in purple-black blooms. Beneath it, the yellowing remains of Xander's assault.
"Fuck." His fingers traced the edges of the darkest bruise, feather-light. "Does it hurt?"
"Everything hurts. But I'm alive."
"Barely," he half growled. "If you hadn't been wearing Kevlar..."
"But I was. Because you taught me to always be prepared. Even your paranoia saved me."
He laughed again, this time with a hint of real humor. "My paranoia has its uses."
His hands continued their exploration, mapping each mark with careful touches. When he reached a particularly dark bruise on my ribs from Xander's fists, I couldn't suppress a hiss.
"Bed," he decided. "You can barely stand."
"I can..."
"Bed," he repeated. "I need to know what's mine and what state it's in."
I followed him through the house to his bedroom, which was our bedroom now. The space still carried the scent of our last encounter, but also of the cleaning service's lemon polish and the rain coming through a cracked window. It was real and lived in. It was ours.
"Lie back," he instructed, helping me onto the mattress. The position eased the pressure on my ribs, and relief washed through me. "Better?"
"Yes."
He sat beside me, hands returning to their careful examination of my injuries. "I thought I'd lost you," he said again, voice barely above a whisper. "When you dropped. When you didn't move. I thought..." He stopped, jaw clenching.
"I know."
"That violence. You knew what would happen. You knew what button you were pushing. What I'd become if I thought I'd lost you."
I caught his hand, bringing it to my lips. "I needed that part of you. That darkness. Without it, Shaw would have won."
"Shaw." His eyes hardened. "I need you to understand something. What happened in Macau when I thought you were gone? That person is always there. Under the surface. Waiting."
"I know."
"Do you?" He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "Because that's part of who you're choosing. Not just the CEO. Not just the man who built an empire. But the boy who beat his stepfather to death and experienced nothing but satisfaction."
"I know who you are," I said steadily. "I know what you are. And I want it. All of you. Every version."
He kissed me then, soft and nothing like our usual violence. His hand gripped the back of my head, fingers in my hair but without force. I tasted whiskey and waited for the roughness that didn't come.
The gentleness was worse. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes before I could stop them, and I was pathetic for crying from a kiss.
He kissed those too.