8. Seven
My head throbbed while I tried to focus on Ash's mission briefing. Each word hammered against my skull like a nail. The hangover from last night clung to me like a second skin, bringing out the worst of my BPD symptoms. Every muscle screamed from running his fucking obstacle course again and again until I felt ready to shatter into a million pieces. But maybe that was what I wanted: to break apart under his hands so he could put me back together stronger.
I shifted in my seat, trying to find a position that didn't make me want to crawl out of my skin. The familiar spiral started, too much, too fast, too real. That gnawing emptiness in my chest had been there since before I could remember, making me chase any kind of connection, any hint of validation. Papa would say I was chasing ghosts again, looking for love in all the wrong places. But what did he know about wanting someone so badly it felt like drowning?
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to ground my scattered thoughts. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps, each flicker sending fresh spikes of pain through my skull. Tatty’s voice echoed in my head, lectures about impulse control and healthy coping mechanisms blending with memories of late-night conversations over tea and cookies. She'd taken one look at my diagnosis and decided I needed saving, like I was just another broken thing she could fix with enough patience and tough love.
But she didn't understand that sometimes the breaking was the point. Sometimes you needed to shatter completely before you could figure out which pieces were worth keeping. The anxiety medication I'd forgotten to take this morning sat heavy in my pocket, a constant reminder of all the ways I was supposed to be managing myself better. Being better. Doing better. Always fucking better.
Ash's voice faded into white noise as my eyes tracked his movements, cataloging every detail like I was profiling a mark. The way he favored his left leg, pain flickering across his face when he thought no one was looking. The precise way he gestured when making a point, every motion controlled and deliberate. Even injured, he moved like a predator. The kind of man who knew exactly how dangerous he was and chose restraint anyway.
I caught myself staring at his hands, imagining them around my throat, and forced my gaze away. Focus, you disaster. This was supposed to be about proving yourself . Sure, the daddy dynamic scratched a particular itch, but it wasn't the only way I connected with people. I thought of Kim, the artist I'd dated last year who'd seen past my chaos to the person underneath, who'd painted my portrait a dozen different ways and never tried to make me be just one thing. But this wasn't the time for gentle connections or artistic exploration. This was about the mission, not adding another complicated relationship to my collection of bad decisions.
But it was impossible not to notice how his tactical pants hugged his thighs, how his shirt stretched across broad shoulders that could probably pin me down with terrifying ease.
The space between us felt charged with possibility. Or maybe that was just the sleep deprivation and comedown talking. Either way, I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't handle another second of him acting like I was just another recruit to be trained, just another burden to bear.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I was moving. My body operated on autopilot as I crossed the room and straddled his lap, pressing close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. For a fraction of a second, everything stopped. My breath, my heart, the whole fucking world narrowing down to the shock in his storm-gray eyes.
"Xander." My name was a growl in his throat, rough and dangerous. His hands caught my hips in a bruising grip, but he didn't push me away. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
I grinned, riding the razor's edge between terror and exhilaration. This close, I could smell his aftershave, could see the exact moment his pupils dilated. "Getting your attention, Daddy. Is it working?"
Something dark flickered in his eyes. Possession, hunger, rage. His fingers dug into my flesh hard enough to leave marks, and fuck if that didn't send electricity straight to my cock. "This isn’t acceptable behavior," he said, voice dropping to that register that made my whole body shiver. "Get. Off."
I leaned in closer, letting my lips brush his ear. "Make me."
The world tilted sharply as he moved, too fast for me to track. One second I was on his lap, the next my back hit the training room floor hard enough to knock the wind out of me. Ash's weight pinned me down, one hand wrapped around my throat while the other caught both my wrists above my head.
Fear and arousal tangled in my gut as I tested his grip, finding no give. He had me completely immobilized, using his size and training to keep me exactly where he wanted me. The pressure on my throat wasn't enough to restrict breathing, just enough to remind me who was in control.
A whimper escaped before I could stop it, my hips bucking up instinctively. But Ash was already shifting his weight, denying me the friction I desperately needed. Bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
The weight of him pressed me into the floor, forcing me to be still, to be present in my own skin for once. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out everything except the sound of his breathing and the distant hum of the building's ventilation system. This was what I'd been chasing. Not just the physical contact, but the absolute certainty of being held together by someone stronger than my own chaos.
Through the haze of adrenaline and need, I caught glimpses of the man behind the mask. The slight tremor in his hands that betrayed his own struggle for control. The way his eyes softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again, like he was fighting against his own instincts. He wasn't just another daddy type to add to my collection. He was something far more dangerous. Someone who could see straight through my defenses to the desperate, lonely thing underneath.
"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, face inches from mine. "To push until I snapped? Until I showed you exactly what happens to pretty little brats who can't follow simple fucking orders?"
"Yes," I gasped, not even trying to hide how much I needed this. Needed him. "Please, Daddy..."
"Remove your hands from my property immediately, Valentine." Algerone's voice cut through the room with arctic precision.
Ash released me instantly, putting distance between us like I'd burned him. I stayed on the floor, chest heaving as I tried to process what had just happened. Algerone stood in the doorway, his expression carved from ice as he assessed the situation with clinical detachment.
"Your inability to maintain professional boundaries is concerning," he stated, adjusting his perfectly aligned cuffs. "Perhaps we need to reevaluate your suitability for this position."
"With all due respect, sir," Ash's voice was controlled, every word carefully measured despite the tension in his jaw, "I was demonstrating appropriate restraint techniques. Your asset was testing boundaries. I responded according to standard training protocols."
"Noted." Algerone's gaze flickered between us, analyzing, calculating. "See that you maintain such... professional distance in all future interactions."
I pushed myself to my feet, that familiar hollow feeling spreading through my chest. To him, I wasn't a child needing protection, I was an investment being mishandled.
"Lucky Losers has accepted a contract from the Russian consortium," Algerone announced, his precise diction filling the room. "The target is someone who has, until now, been untouchable through legal channels. Someone whose wealth and connections have made them effectively immune to conventional justice." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "I trust you're both familiar with Avery Roche?"
Without waiting for a response, he activated the massive display screen. Holy fuck. It was Avery fucking Roche. The legendary designer was exiting a French courthouse, their angular features a mask of cool indifference despite the media circus. They were wearing what looked like an original piece from their infamous "Beautiful Monster" collection.
The way they'd styled that suit was pure genius. They had taken traditional masculine elements and twisted them into something dangerous and beautiful. I saw myself in how the design rejected binary constraints. It was neither masculine nor feminine, but deliberately, defiantly both and neither. The design embodied everything the MEAN QUEER aesthetic stood for, everything I'd been trying to express through my own relationship with fashion since realizing I wasn't bound by binary gender.
"Fashion mogul Avery Roche has been cleared of involvement in a string of model disappearances," the BBC reporter announced. "After a highly publicized trial, the French court cited insufficient evidence to proceed with charges, marking the third time allegations against the designer have failed to stick."
"Your familiarity with Roche's work will be relevant to this operation," Algerone said, his voice as measured as a metronome. "But more importantly, you need to understand why conventional justice has failed." He tapped his tablet, bringing up a new series of images. "What the public knows about are disappearances. Missing persons cases that never stick. What they don't know is that we've found some of the bodies."
Crime scene photos spread across the screen like a grotesque gallery. What I first took for mannequins in the images made my stomach turn when I looked closer. The bodies had been preserved somehow, posed like living dolls in elaborate couture. Their skin had an unnatural sheen, faces frozen in eternal beauty. Empty eyes stared out from perfect makeup, limbs arranged with loving precision. These weren't just murders. They were transformations.
"The police can't connect these discoveries to Roche," Algerone continued, his voice clinical. "The preservation techniques make time of death impossible to determine. The bodies are displayed like art installations in private collections across Europe, and Roche's lawyers ensure any evidence that does surface is inadmissible or discredited. Their workshop may be in Paris, but their 'art' has an international audience."
A handsome young man appeared in several recent surveillance photos, always at Roche's side. He moved with the practiced grace of a model, sharp cheekbones and an athlete's build making him stand out even in the grainy footage. There was something familiar about him that I couldn't quite place, like I'd seen him at a family event or in Papa's photos. But before I could chase that thought, my attention was caught by a medical examiner's report, phrases jumping out in stark clinical language: "evidence of post-mortem sexual activity" and "chemical preservation techniques similar to taxidermy."
My hands shook as I took in more details. All the victims had been queer models and performers, each one chosen with meticulous care. Roche wasn't just killing them; they were collecting them, turning them into permanent pieces of their twisted art collection. The same eye for beauty that had revolutionized fashion was being used to create something monstrous.
"The Russian consortium has committed one point five million euros for confirmation of death," Algerone stated, maintaining that purely transactional tone. "But more importantly, they want this stopped before Roche's operation can expand. We have intelligence suggesting they're planning to begin taking commissions. Preserving beauty for wealthy collectors who share their... particular tastes."
"Holy shit," I breathed, my earlier excitement about Roche's designs turning to ash in my mouth. Their "Beautiful Monster" collection took on new meaning now. They hadn’t just been playing with gender presentation, but exploring something darker. The way they transformed traditional masculine silhouettes wasn't just artistic vision. It was practice.
"Roche frequents certain exclusive clubs in Paris," Algerone continued. "Private venues where they scout new talent and... evaluate potential acquisitions." His eyes fixed on me with calculated precision. "You'll be positioned as fresh meat in their hunting grounds. The kind of unique beauty that would catch their eye. If we play this correctly, they'll invite you to one of their private gatherings – the kind where phones are checked at the door and NDAs are required for entry."
My heart actually stopped. Being chosen by Roche. The thought bounced around my skull like pinballs, a twisted parody of the dreams I'd had when I first discovered their work. Back then, I'd imagined being noticed by them, being appreciated for exactly who and what I was. But now those dreams were tainted by the knowledge of what "appreciation" meant to Roche. Their perfect victims forever frozen in artful poses, turned into the ultimate fashion statements. This wasn't about modeling or art. This was about becoming prey.
"You're the perfect type for them," Algerone said, and something in his voice made my skin crawl. "Young. Beautiful. Gender non-conforming. Exactly the kind of unique beauty they like to... preserve."
He was using me as bait, I realized. Using my looks, my identity, everything that made me who I was as a lure for a monster. And the worst part? I knew it would work. Because part of me was still thrilled at the idea of being chosen, even knowing what that choice would mean. What did that say about me?
My fingers traced absent patterns on the conference table as images of their collections flashed through my mind. I'd spent countless nights studying their designs, dreaming of what it would be like to wear one of their pieces, to be transformed by their vision. The way they played with power dynamics in their styling had always spoken to something deep inside me, that part that craved both control and surrender.
Now those same designs felt tainted, each beautiful line hiding potential violence. But wasn't that always the way with the things we desired most? Beauty and danger, wrapped up so tightly you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Like Ash's hands on my throat earlier. The threat of harm made the gentleness that much more intoxicating.
The crime scene photos seemed to pulse with their own sick energy, forcing me to confront the darkest implications of my own fascination with their work. Each victim had been chosen not just for their beauty, but for their ability to embody Roche's twisted aesthetic. They'd been turned into living art pieces, their humanity stripped away until they were nothing but canvas for someone else's vision. Just like I'd been letting others paint over my rough edges since before I could remember, trying to become whatever version of myself they wanted to see.
"A moment ago you were enthusing about their design philosophy," Algerone continued, clinical as ever. "Apply that knowledge professionally. The role requires you to authentically appreciate their work while gathering intelligence. Your genuine interest will make the cover more credible."
"Why outsource to Lucky Losers?" I asked. "The Bratva usually handles their own cleaning."
"Market positioning." Algerone's response was measured, corporate. "A Russian signature on this would be inefficient. Lucky Losers provides a more elegant solution with our established legitimate cover." He straightened an already immaculate tie. "The primary objective will be to take Roche out at home or somewhere private, which means approaching him off duty. We’ve selected a number of clubs Roche and his current…doll…frequent. You’ll be engaging with him there.”
“What about him?” I pointed to the doll Algerone had mentioned earlier.
"Mikhailina Vasiliev." Algerone's voice carried a note of something almost like regret. "Though he goes by Misha now. His extraction is a secondary objective, but a delicate one. Viktor Vasiliev may have publicly disowned his child for being transgender, but having Misha so... publicly displayed... by Roche creates complications. Not to mention Roche is using him as insurance against direct action from the Russians. They know we won't move against them while Misha is in their possession."
Misha…Maybe Algerone considered his rescue a secondary objective, but I intended to make it a priority. I wasn’t going to let Roche hurt anyone else, not if I could help it.
"The mission parameters require a marriage cover," Algerone continued, every word precise. "Roche's pattern includes involving couples in their private gatherings. This provides optimal access." He fixed us both with an arctic stare. "To be explicitly clear: this is a professional operation. Any deviation from appropriate conduct will result in immediate contract termination."
The clinical way he discussed it made my skin crawl. Even fake marriage was just another business transaction to him, another asset to be managed.
"This level of undercover work requires adequate preparation," he stated, pulling up another image. A woman in her early forties with platinum blonde hair and razor-sharp cheekbones, wearing head-to-toe black leather. She looked like she'd stepped straight off a magazine cover, which made sense given that she probably had.
All the color drained from Ash's face. "Absolutely not."
"Zara Novak," Algerone announced with mechanical precision. "Her industry credentials are extensive. She has agreed to provide the necessary training." A pause, calculated. "Her previous marriage to Valentine will add authenticity to the cover."
"You were married?" I stared at Ash in disbelief. "To her?"
"Does that surprise you?" The edge in his voice made me shiver. "What, you thought I spent my whole life alone?"
Of course he'd had a life before me. Of course there had been others. Beautiful, successful others who probably didn't need constant validation or try to self-destruct every time something got hard.
"Training begins tomorrow," Algerone stated. "Your performance on this operation will be evaluated according to standard metrics. Failure is not an acceptable outcome."
His meaning was clear. This wasn't about family or pride. This was about assets performing their assigned functions.
"I can handle it," I said, shooting Ash my most provocative smile. "Question is, can Daddy here keep up?"
Ash's eyes darkened dangerously, but before he could respond, Algerone was already walking out, execution orders delivered.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with Ash and the weight of everything unsaid between us.
My eyes tracked Ash's movements as he paced the length of the room, tension radiating from every line of his body. The revelation about Zara had cracked something in his carefully maintained facade. I could see it in the way his shoulders had tightened, the barely controlled violence in each step. There was history there, deep and painful, written in the scars he tried so hard to hide.
I wanted to ask him about her, about their marriage, about all the pieces of his past that made him who he was. But the words stuck in my throat, tangled up with my own insecurities. Instead, I found myself cataloging the details of his face, searching for traces of the man who had loved her. Who had built a life with her before something went wrong enough to bring him here, to this moment, with me.
The contrast between us was almost laughable. She was everything I wasn't: polished, professional, probably stable enough to maintain a real relationship. The kind of person who didn't need to be constantly reminded to take their meds or talked down from emotional spirals. The kind of person who could give him what he needed without turning it into another cry for attention.
But maybe that was why it hadn't worked out. Maybe what he needed wasn't perfection, but someone who understood what it meant to be beautifully broken. Someone who could match his darkness with their own.
"So..." I broke first, unable to handle the tension. "Spouse, huh? Should I start picking out matching china?" The word felt right in my mouth. Not husband, not wife, but a partner. Even in a cover marriage, I refused to be boxed into binary roles. "Though I guess we'll have to play it traditional in public, won't we? At least until we're in Roche's inner circle where the queerness becomes an asset rather than a liability."
"This isn't a fucking game." Ash's voice was low and dangerous as he advanced on me, backing me up against the wall. "One wrong move and this whole operation falls apart. So you better get your shit together real quick, princess. Because starting tomorrow? The real training begins."
I swallowed hard, caught between fear and arousal as he caged me in. "Yes, sir."
His eyes flashed at the title, and for a second I thought he might actually kiss me. Instead, he stepped back, leaving me cold and aching. "Get some rest. You're going to need it."
I watched him walk away, already missing the heat of his body against mine. Between the mission, the marriage cover, and whatever this thing was between us, I was walking straight into the kind of emotional storm my BPD brain both craved and feared. The kind that could either give me everything I'd ever wanted or destroy me completely.
But maybe that was the point. After all, destruction had always been my favorite form of foreplay.