5. Four
Pain woke me before dawn, a familiar throb in my knee that no amount of prescription pills could fully silence. I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling of my spartan bedroom while memories of yesterday's encounter with Xander played on repeat. I’d always been able to read people like books, but that kid? He was written in a language I wasn't sure I wanted to understand.
It was a quarter to five when I finally gave up on sleep. Better to face the day head-on than lie here dwelling on things I couldn't change. Like how those desperate eyes had stirred something in me I'd thought long dead. Something that shared DNA with the darkness I'd inherited from my parents.
The training facility was empty when I arrived, just how I liked it. The silence felt like an old friend as I changed into workout gear, my movements careful and measured. Each twinge in my knee was a reminder of how far I'd fallen from grace.
I'd set up the training room the night before, wanting everything perfect for Xander's first session. The obstacles were arranged to test more than just physical prowess. They'd reveal how he handled stress, fear, authority. The kind of insights that had made me one of the FBI's top trainers before a bullet changed everything.
The gym equipment cast long shadows in the early morning light, each piece a potential tool for building strength or exposing weakness. I'd spent decades learning to read people, to understand what made them tick, what made them break. The course I'd set up wasn't just about physical prowess. It was about exposing the raw edges of someone's psyche, about finding the cracks that could either shatter them or make them stronger.
My father had used similar techniques, though his goals had been far darker. He'd studied people too, learning their weaknesses not to help them but to exploit them. The millions sitting untouched in my accounts were testament to how profitable that kind of manipulation could be. I'd spent my whole career trying to use those same skills for good, to be the opposite of everything he stood for. But watching Xander push himself to his limits, seeing that desperate need for validation in his eyes stirred something in me that felt uncomfortably familiar.
Six o'clock came and went. Then six-thirty. My jaw ached from grinding my teeth as I paced, cataloging the ways I'd make them pay for this disrespect. But beneath the anger lurked something darker—worry. Had he gone off the rails again? Found some new way to self-destruct? I recognized the pattern: pushing boundaries, testing limits, seeing if I'd abandon them like others had. But I wasn't going anywhere, and they were going to learn that one grueling training session at a time.
At seven-twelve, the door finally opened. Xander stumbled in looking thoroughly debauched, their designer clothes rumpled, makeup smeared and… Christ, was that a fucking hickey on their neck? Something dark and possessive roared to life in my chest, an urge to hunt down whoever had marked him and explain exactly why that had been a mistake. The way they carried themself, even disheveled, spoke of their martial arts training, but right now, that deadly grace was overshadowed by whatever poor decisions they'd made last night.
"You're late," I growled, my voice pitched low and dangerous.
Xander pushed his sunglasses up, revealing bloodshot eyes that tried too hard to look defiant. "Sorry, Daddy. Traffic was a bitch."
Their eyes met mine, exhibiting that familiar pattern of challenge and desperate need for validation that came with BPD. They were testing boundaries again, seeing if I'd reject them like others had. Not fucking likely. I'd been reading up on how to handle their rapid mood shifts, how to provide the structure they craved while letting them maintain their autonomy.
I crossed the space between us in three long strides, ignoring the protest from my knee. This close, I could smell alcohol and strange cologne on him. Could see the desperate need for validation warring with self-destruction in those too-bright eyes.
“Let's get one thing straight,' I said, crowding into their space until they had to tilt their head back to maintain eye contact. “I'm not one of your little conquest daddies who'll let you act out because you look pretty in lace and eyeliner. When I give you an order, you fucking follow it. No excuses.”
A flash of real fear crossed his face before that practiced mask slipped back into place. "Or what?" he challenged, but his pulse was hammering in his throat. "You gonna punish me?"
Christ. The way he said it—half hopeful, half terrified—hit me right in the gut. Made me want to grab him by the throat and show him exactly what real punishment felt like. The urge was so strong my fingers actually twitched.
"Fifty push-ups," I barked instead, forcing my hands to stay at my sides. "Now."
He hesitated just long enough to make it clear he was choosing to obey rather than being forced. Then he dropped, assuming the position with a grace that spoke of years of training. I watched his form critically, looking for signs of the hangover I knew he was fighting.
"Chest to the ground," I ordered, setting my cane aside so I could crouch next to him. The movement sent daggers through my knee, but I ignored them. "I want to see the floor kiss you on every rep."
A shiver ran through him at my words. Interesting. I filed that reaction away for later analysis as I watched him struggle through the first ten reps. His form was good, too good for someone who'd clearly been out partying all night. The kid had real talent buried under all that chaos.
By rep thirty, their arms were shaking. Sweat darkened their shirt, plastering it to lean muscle built from years of competitive fighting. I could see him pushing through it, the same determination that had won them those tournament medals now focused on proving something to me. That kind of intensity was rare, exactly what the organization needed, if I could channel it properly.
Something dark and hungry stirred in my chest as I watched him suffer through the last few reps. The part of me that had inherited my father's capacity for cruelty wanted to push him harder, to see how far he'd go to prove himself. But there was something else too, an urge to protect, to guide, to shape him into something stronger.
When he finally collapsed, chest heaving, I gave him exactly ten seconds before nudging him with my cane. "Up. We're just getting started."
The obstacle course I'd designed was brutal, a gauntlet meant to expose weaknesses both physical and psychological. I'd arranged each element to create specific stress points, the kind of challenges that would reveal who someone really was under pressure.
I watched Xander's face as he took it in, catching the micro-expressions that flashed across his features. Fear. Determination. A desperate need to prove himself. All wrapped up in that practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor.
"Show me what you've got," I said, deliberately gentle. Sometimes the carrot worked better than the stick.
They attacked each obstacle like they were trying to prove something, moving with the precision that came from years of tournament fighting. But tournament rules wouldn't matter in the field. He needed to learn to channel that controlled violence into something darker, something more lethal. Their raw talent was obvious. Now they just needed to learn when and how to unleash it.
The rope swing gave them pause. I caught the micro-expression of genuine fear before they masked it with bravado. Another piece of the puzzle that was Xander Laskin, something to explore when they were ready to trust me with that story.
"Problem?" I called out, keeping my voice neutral. This was a test—not just of their physical capabilities, but of how they handled fear.
"Just admiring the view," he shot back, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. Still, he grabbed the rope and launched himself across the gap with more courage than sense.
He barely made the landing, scrambling onto the platform with none of his usual grace. But he'd done it. Faced his fear head-on instead of backing down. Another tick in the positive column.
By the time he finished the course, he was drenched in sweat and trembling with exhaustion. But there was fire in his eyes when he looked at me, silently daring me to find fault with his performance.
"Again," I said simply. "Thirty seconds faster this time."
The look he gave me could have stripped paint. "You're fucking kidding me."
"Do I look like I'm kidding?" I stepped closer, using my height advantage to loom over him. "You want to prove you belong here? Show me. Show me you can push past your limits instead of running away to the nearest club when things get hard."
Color flooded his cheeks. Whether it was shame or anger, I couldn't tell. But he turned back to the starting line without another word. Good.
I watched him throw himself at the course again, noting how his form suffered as fatigue set in. The way he favored his right side slightly. The determined set of his jaw even as his hands shook on the climbing wall.
He missed the thirty-second mark by two seconds. Watching him collapse at the finish line stirred complicated emotions. Pride at his determination warred with an almost overwhelming urge to protect. I wanted to push him harder, to test his limits, to see exactly what he was capable of. But I also wanted to gather him close, to shield him from the world that had made him so desperate for validation. The contradiction of those desires reminded me uncomfortably of how my father had "cared" for his assets, pushing them to excellence while maintaining absolute control.
But this was different. Had to be different. Because, unlike my father, I actually cared about Xander's wellbeing. Wanted to see him grow stronger, not just bend to my will. The fact that those protective instincts came wrapped in darker desires... well, that was something I'd have to learn to navigate. Something we'd both have to learn to navigate, if the heat in his eyes when he looked at me was any indication.
I tossed him a water bottle, watching as he gulped it down greedily. "Time we had a talk about how things are going to work from now on."
His eyes met mine, wariness warring with that ever-present need to push buttons. "Gonna lay down the law, Daddy?"
The title hit me like a physical blow, stirring something possessive and hungry in my gut. I forced it down, focusing on the task at hand. "Random drug tests starting today. Full STI panel too. No more clubs, no more random hookups, no more showing up to training hungover." I kept my voice firm but not cruel, establishing boundaries while watching their reaction carefully.
"Or what?" they challenged, but there was something desperate in their eyes. Looking for boundaries, looking for proof I meant what I said.
"Or I'll show you exactly what real discipline looks like. And trust me, baby—you won't enjoy it nearly as much as you think you will."
A visible shiver ran through him. "What if I want you to show me anyway?"
Christ. The raw need in their voice made my cock throb. Made me want to grab them by the throat and show them exactly what happened to brats who played with fire. He knew how to push every one of my buttons just right.
I forced myself to step back, putting a safe distance between us.
"Hit the showers," I ordered, my voice rough. "Then report to medical for your tests. Don't even think about trying to skip out."
He stood slowly, swaying slightly with exhaustion. But that defiant spark was still there in his eyes when he looked at me. "Yes, sir," he purred, making the honorific sound downright pornographic.
I watched him saunter toward the locker room, fighting the urge to follow. To push him up against the wall and... No. That way lay madness. I was supposed to be helping him, not adding to his issues.
But as I gathered my things to leave, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was already in too deep. That this beautiful, broken boy would either be my salvation or my downfall.
Probably both.
I just hoped we'd both survive finding out which.
Back in my office, I poured three fingers of bourbon and tried to make sense of what was happening to me. Three decades of certainty about who I was, crumbling because one fascinating disaster walked into my life. It wasn't just the physical attraction. Though Christ, watching them move through that course with deadly grace had done things to me. It was the way they pushed back against authority even while craving it. The fierce determination I saw beneath the chaos. The vulnerability they tried so hard to hide.
My hand shook slightly as I poured another drink. The intensity of my reaction to their lateness should have worried me more than it did. Everything about Xander felt personal in a way I couldn't ignore.
I found myself thinking about my ex-wives, about how those relationships had failed. They'd always said I kept them at arm's length, never letting them see the darkness inside me. But with Xander... he didn't just see that darkness. He called to it. Challenged it. Made me want to let it out in ways that should have terrified me.
The intensity of my reaction to his lateness should have worried me more than it did. Law enforcement had taught me to maintain professional distance, to never let cases get personal. But everything about Xander felt personal in a way I couldn't ignore. The way he tested boundaries while clearly craving structure, the careful maintenance that went into crafting his image, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide beneath provocative behavior. It all called to something protective and possessive in my nature.
I couldn't stop analyzing every detail: the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed anxiety beneath his bravado, the way his eyes constantly sought validation even as he pushed people away. Classic borderline behavior patterns, but knowing the clinical terms did nothing to diminish their impact. If anything, understanding the psychology behind his actions just made me want to help more. To provide the stability he so clearly needed while channeling that raw talent into something powerful.
"Fuck," I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. What kind of mid-life crisis was this? Getting hard over some twenty-something in makeup and painted nails just because he batted his eyes and called me daddy?
I knocked back the rest of my drink, hoping the burn would drown out the memory of those desperate eyes. The way my body had reacted when he'd called me 'sir.'
My hand shook slightly as I poured another drink. Thought I was straight my whole life, and now I was having fantasies about bending Xander over my desk, about marking that pale throat so everyone would know who they belonged to. What the hell was wrong with me?
But even as I asked the question, I knew the answer. Nothing was wrong with me. I just wasn't as straight as I'd thought. And that realization? It should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like finally admitting something I'd always known but never had the courage to face.