7. Six
The house was silent when I stepped inside, but silence had stopped being peaceful years ago. Now it just reminded me of interview rooms where killers confessed their darkest urges. Of the quiet after my father was arrested, when the enormity of his crimes had settled over our family like a shroud. Twenty years of hunting monsters, and here I was, fighting the darkness in my own blood.
My knee screamed as I made my way to the kitchen to pour myself a drink. The bullet that had ended my field career had done more than shatter bone. It had stripped away the badge I'd used to separate myself from men like my father. Now I was working for Algerone fucking Caisse-Etremont, training his son to be exactly the kind of weapon I'd spent my career trying to stop.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd once sat in a courtroom watching my father explain how he'd "shaped" my mother into the perfect partner. How he'd recognized her potential for darkness and carefully cultivated it until she was as deadly as he was. I'd spent my entire career proving I wasn't like him, that I could use my insight into human behavior for justice instead of control.
But watching Xander during training, seeing how perfectly he responded to my commands, how desperately he craved my approval... The satisfaction I felt was uncomfortably familiar. My father had talked about my mother the same way, like she was clay to be molded, a weapon to be honed. The millions sitting untouched in my accounts were built on that kind of manipulation. Blood money earned through breaking people down and rebuilding them into weapons.
I knocked back another drink, remembering the case files I'd studied during my father's trial. The careful documentation of how he'd selected his targets, all of them beautiful, broken people desperate for validation. People like Xander, who wore their damage like armor but craved someone strong enough to see past their defenses. My father had called it "cultivation." The FBI called it grooming.
The whiskey burned going down, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in my head. Today's training session had cracked something open inside me, something I couldn't put back. The way Xander had looked at me after that final run through the obstacle course, exhausted and desperate for validation... Christ. Decades spent interviewing killers had taught me to recognize hunger when I saw it. But the hunger in those eyes? That wasn't the kind I was trained to profile. That was the kind that made me want to devour him whole, to see just how far that need for approval went. To own every broken piece of him and make him beg for more.
The possessive thought should have disturbed me. Not just because of the darkness behind it, but because of who inspired it. Twenty years of certainty about my sexuality had crumbled in the face of Xander's beauty. I'd never been attracted to masculine bodies before, had never wanted someone with male anatomy. The fact that Xander had a cock should have been an instant deal-breaker for me.
But there was nothing simple about my attraction to them. It wasn't about what was between their legs, but about who they were, how they moved through the world with that deadly grace. Still, I couldn't stop obsessing over the physical reality of what acting on this desire would mean. My cock hardened traitorously at the thought, confusing me further. Was I still straight if I wanted someone with a dick? Did it matter when that someone transcended simple categories of male and female?
My hand trembled as I reached for my phone, muscle memory taking over. The escort service was on speed dial. It was a habit born from too many nights when the job got under my skin and I needed to lose myself in simple pleasure.
I’d always been attracted to women. Simple, straightforward attraction that fit into neat little boxes. Until Xander came along, shattering every boundary I'd built between want and need. They moved through the world like they owned it, like rules about gender and desire were beneath their notice. And watching them, I was starting to understand why.
My first marriage had ended because Sarah couldn't handle the darkness she glimpsed behind my control. She'd wanted the strong, protective federal agent, not the man who sometimes woke up hard from dreams of possessing her completely, of owning every breath.
But Zara... Zara had been different. She'd seen the darkness in me and hadn't flinched. Maybe because she was fighting her own battles, trying to force herself into a box that could never contain her.
Looking back, I could see the signs. The way she'd throw herself into our marriage like she was trying to convince herself as much as everyone else. The careful distance she maintained even as she played the perfect wife. We'd both been lying to ourselves, me about the darkness I inherited from my father, her about who she really wanted in her bed. The irony of us both facing sexual identity crises wasn't lost on me. At least she'd had the courage to admit her truth first.
I still remembered the night she told me. No tears, no drama. Just quiet certainty as she explained that she'd fallen in love with Elena. That she'd spent years trying to be what everyone expected, to want what she was supposed to want. I'd recognized that desperate need to fit into society's neat little boxes. Maybe that's why we'd managed to stay friends afterward. We understood each other's struggles with identity in a way most people couldn't.
The escort service had been my compromise after Zara, a way to satisfy my needs without risking a real connection. These women understood boundaries, knew exactly what they were offering and what they weren't. It was safe. Controlled. Everything my growing obsession with Xander wasn't.
Now here I was, forty-two years old and finally understanding what Zara had meant about forcing yourself to be something you weren't. About the exhaustion of denying your own truth. The relief of finally letting yourself want what you really wanted, even if it didn't fit into those neat little boxes of straight and gay, male and female.
"The usual?" Maria's voice was professional, familiar.
"Yeah," I managed, my voice rough. "Send Cindy."
The call ended, and I poured another drink, trying to drown out the voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like my father. He'd always said the darkness ran in our blood, that some men were born to own, to possess, to break things just to see if they could be put back together. I'd spent my whole life proving him wrong, being one of the good guys.
But the way I wanted Xander? There was nothing good about it.
The knock came exactly on time. Cindy stood in the doorway looking exactly as I remembered—curves in all the right places, a practiced smile in place. Everything I was supposed to want.
"Hi stranger," she purred, stepping inside. Her perfume hit me first—jasmine and vanilla, sweet and feminine. The scent that used to make my mouth water now felt cloying, artificial. Wrong. All wrong. "Miss me?"
I forced a smile, gesturing her toward the bedroom. My instincts cataloged every detail of her approach, from the practiced sway of her hips to the precise amount of invitation in her smile. Everything designed to appeal to men who liked their women soft and submissive. This was what I needed. This was what I'd always wanted. Proof that I was still the same man I'd always been, that these thoughts about Xander were just some mid-life crisis bullshit brought on by too much time alone.
In the bedroom, Cindy's dress hit the floor in a whisper of silk, revealing black lace and smooth skin. She was beautiful in that classic way that had always worked for me before, all curves and softness, nothing sharp or dangerous about her. Perfect. She should have been perfect. And I felt absolutely nothing.
"Touch me," she breathed, pressing against me. Her hands slid under my shirt, nails scraping lightly across my chest. The kind of touch that usually had me hard and aching in seconds. I waited for my body to respond, for that familiar surge of desire. But there was nothing except a growing sense of wrongness that made my skin crawl.
Because all I could think about was Xander. The defiant tilt of his chin when I got in his face. The way his crop top had ridden up during training, revealing lean muscle and fading scars that spoke of a life lived dangerously. The dark smudge of eyeliner that made his eyes look huge and hungry. How fucking pretty he'd look on his knees, those painted lips wrapped around my—
"Fuck." I stepped back like I'd been burned, running a hand down my face. The contrast was too sharp, her artificial softness against memories of Xander's raw edges. Everything I thought I knew about myself was unraveling, and I couldn't breathe through it. "I can't do this."
Cindy frowned, professional mask slipping for just a moment. In that brief flash, I caught genuine concern in her eyes. My profiler's brain wouldn't shut off, reading the micro-expressions that crossed her face. Recognition, understanding, sympathy. "Everything okay?"
No. Nothing was okay. I was forty-two years old and suddenly questioning everything I thought I knew about myself. Because Xander had carved out space under my skin with deliberate precision, making me want things I'd spent decades pretending not to understand. They carried danger like a second skin, and Christ help me, I wanted to taste it.
"I'll pay for the full hour," I said, already reaching for my wallet. "Plus extra for the trouble."
She took the money with a practiced smile, but I caught the flash of knowing sympathy in her eyes. The look of someone who'd seen this scene play out before. How many men had she watched have their sexual identity crisis on her time? How many others had realized they wanted something—someone—that didn't fit into neat little boxes of male and female, straight and gay?
"It gets easier," she said softly as she gathered her clothes, and I wasn't sure if she meant accepting who you wanted or living with the uncertainty. Maybe both.
The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with thoughts I couldn't escape. My cock was still hard in my jeans, aching for something I didn't know how to want.
Fuck it.
I stripped efficiently, military precision born from years of compartmentalizing, and laid stiffly on top of the covers. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it properly. No more half-measures, no more lying to myself.
My hand wrapped around my cock, already slick with pre-cum. I closed my eyes and let myself imagine what I really wanted. Xander on his knees, looking up at me with those desperate eyes. The way they'd sound begging for whatever I chose to give them, desperate and defiant all at once. The way they'd fight submission even while craving it. Xander never made anything simple. They'd make me earn every inch of control, and fuck if that didn't make me want it more.
"Please, Daddy," I imagined him saying, and fuck if that didn't make my cock pulse in my grip. I'd never gotten off on being called daddy before, but something about the way Xander said it like a challenge and a plea wrapped in one hit me right in the gut.
The fantasy shifted. Xander bent over my desk, that perfect ass on display. He had experience, enough to know exactly how to take what I gave him. The thought of him with other men made something possessive roar to life in my chest. Made me want to mark him up, claim him, make sure everyone knew who he belonged to.
My hand moved faster, rougher. In my mind, I was buried deep in Xander's ass, one hand fisted in his hair while the other left bruises on his hip. Making him take it, making him feel it, making him mine.
"Fuck," I growled, pressure building at the base of my spine. The fantasy was too vivid. I imagined Xander crying out as I used him, begging for more, calling me daddy in that breathy voice that drove me crazy.
I came with a shout, cum painting my chest and stomach in thick ropes. The orgasm drained all my energy, leaving me shaking and gasping for air.
Reality crashed back in as I lay there, covered in my own release. I'd just jerked off thinking about my boss' son. Someone twenty years younger who I was supposed to be training, protecting. Instead, I was fantasizing about corrupting them completely, about taking advantage of their desperate need for approval. Christ, I was no better than the predators I used to hunt.
I cleaned up mechanically, mind racing. This wasn't just about sex. If it was just physical attraction, I could handle that. But the way I wanted Xander? The need to protect and possess, to break him down and build him back up stronger? That was something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
My father's words echoed in my head: "Some men are born to own, to possess. It's in our blood, son. You can't fight what you are."
I stared at my reflection, barely recognizing the man looking back at me. Twenty years of certainty stripped away by one beautiful killer with daddy issues and a death wish.
The whiskey was still waiting downstairs, but I didn't bother. No amount of alcohol could drown out the truth I'd been running from.
I wanted Xander. Wanted to own him, possess him, make him mine in every way possible. And that terrified me. Not because he had a dick—that revelation seemed almost secondary now. But because the darkness I saw in him called to something equally dark in me. Something I'd spent my whole life pretending didn't exist.
Well, fuck.
I was in trouble. Real, serious trouble. Because Xander wasn't just some kid I could ignore or push away. He was my responsibility now. My trainee. Mine to shape and mold and protect.
Mine.
The possessive thought scared the hell out of me.
Tomorrow, I'd have to face him again. Watch him push himself to his limits, desperate for my approval. And I'd have to pretend I wasn't fighting the urge to bend him over the nearest surface and show him exactly what that kind of submission earned.
But for now? For now, I let myself imagine what it would be like to give in. To take what I wanted, consequences be damned.
After all, some monsters were born to hunt. Others were born to own.
The truth was, I'd never been normal. Normal men didn't spend their careers hunting monsters while fighting the urge to understand them too well. Normal men didn't dream about possession and control, about owning someone so completely they became an extension of your will. Normal men didn't inherit millions in blood money that they couldn't bring themselves to spend because every dollar was earned through breaking someone's spirit.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe I'd spent so long trying to prove I wasn't like my father that I'd forgotten there might be a middle ground. A way to channel these urges into something that wasn't destructive. Because, unlike my father, I didn't want to break Xander. I wanted to protect him, to give him the structure and validation he so desperately craved. To possess him, yes, but in a way that made him stronger rather than crushing his spirit.
The real question was whether I could trust myself to find that balance. Whether twenty years of behavioral analysis had taught me enough about control to keep my darkness in check. Whether I could give Xander what he needed without becoming the very thing I'd spent my life fighting against.
Maybe it was time to stop fighting what I was.