11. Ten
The office was too damn quiet. Mission briefings for the Roche operation lay scattered across my desk, but I couldn't focus on the preserved corpses in designer clothes. Not when surveillance photos of Xander's combat training kept drawing my eye. The way he moved during today's session with Zara had been mesmerizing. All lethal grace wrapped in devastating beauty. Xander was naturally magnetic, and that thought made something dark and possessive twist in my gut.
"Admiring your handiwork?"
I hadn't heard him enter, proof of how well he'd absorbed his training. Or how distracted I'd been. Xander lounged in the doorway wearing a black pleated skirt that barely reached mid-thigh and a cropped sweater that showed a strip of pale skin. He'd left his makeup on from training with Zara—smokey eyes and lips stained just-bitten red. The sight hit me like a physical blow.
"You're supposed to be reviewing mission parameters," I said, forcing my voice steady. Professional. Like I wasn't imagining how those thighs would feel wrapped around my waist.
"I did." They moved with characteristic precision, their presence filling the room. "Three times. I've already mapped out three alternate extraction scenarios. The client's safety has to be our priority." He perched on the edge of my desk, close enough that I could smell his perfume, something sweet and dangerous. "But I thought we should discuss our cover story. Practice being a convincing couple."
The way he said couple made heat pool in my gut. "You need to take this seriously, Xander."
His smile was sharp as a blade as he reached for my holster where it lay on the desk. "Then why do you keep looking at my legs like you want to spread them?"
I should stop him. Should maintain professional distance. Instead, I watched as he drew my gun with practiced ease, those black-painted nails a stark contrast against the metal. He checked the chamber with fluid grace. It was empty, of course. Kid was reckless, not stupid.
"Put it down," I ordered, but my voice came out rougher than intended.
Instead, he traced the barrel along his own throat, down his chest, letting it catch on the hem of his sweater. "Make me, Daddy."
Christ. The direct challenge in his voice hit me like a physical blow. This was exactly what Algerone had warned about. Xander was using sex as a weapon, pushing boundaries until something broke. The smart thing would be to shut this down now.
I wasn't feeling particularly smart.
I rose from my chair, using my height to loom over him. "You think you're clever, don't you? Playing these games, pushing buttons just to see what happens?"
His pupils dilated, but he didn't back down. If anything, he pressed closer, tilting his chin up defiantly. "Is it working?"
I reached out, trailing my fingers along his jaw, down the elegant line of his throat. Such delicate bone structure, like he'd been crafted from marble and steel. Beautiful and breakable and so goddamn strong all at once. His pulse fluttered beneath my touch like a trapped bird, betraying how my nearness affected him despite his practiced coolness.
"So pretty," I murmured, watching his pupils dilate at the praise. My thumb traced over his bottom lip, feeling how soft it was, how it trembled slightly. "And you know it too, don't you? Know exactly how to use that beauty like a weapon."
His breath hitched as I wrapped my hand around his throat, not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. A promise of what could come if he surrendered to me. The way he melted into the touch, completely trusting despite knowing how dangerous I could be, made something protective and primal surge in my chest.
My fingers tightened slightly around his throat as unfamiliar desires crashed through me. All my careful walls, my rigid definitions of self, crumbled in the face of his beauty. Xander was a study in perfect contradiction, all sharp angles and soft curves, strength and grace intertwined. The confidence in how he moved, how he existed beyond simple categorization, should have let me file this away as mere appreciation. Instead, each breath against my palm, each flutter of pulse beneath my fingers, pulled me deeper into wanting. He'd turned his body into art, into poetry, and I was helpless not to read every line.
"Last chance," I growled, my voice rough with need and fear and something darker. My thumb traced over his racing pulse, feeling how it jumped at my touch. "Walk away now. Because if you stay..." I swallowed hard. "If you stay, I'm going to show you exactly what happens to pretty little brats who can't behave. And baby? There won't be anything gentle about it."
Instead of answering, he deliberately traced the gun barrel down his chest, over his stomach, until it pressed against the growing bulge beneath his skirt. His breath hitched as he ground against the metal, eyes locked on mine in blatant challenge.
Something in me snapped.
I knocked the gun from his hand and yanked him off the desk in one fluid motion, spinning him to face the wall. He gasped as I pinned him there with my body, one hand fisted in his hair while the other trapped his wrists above his head.
"This what you wanted?" I growled in his ear, grinding my cock against his ass so he could feel exactly how hard I was. "To push until I snapped? Until I showed you exactly what I’m capable of?"
"Please, Daddy," he whimpered, pressing back against me.
"Please what?" I bit down on his neck, marking him. Mine. "Use your words, baby. Tell me exactly what you need."
"Need you to fuck me," he gasped, writhing against my grip. "Need you to make me yours. Please, Daddy, I've been so good..."
I spun him around, needing to see his face. His pupils were blown wide with arousal, lips parted and swollen where he'd been biting them. Beautiful. But I needed to be sure.
"Tell me to stop," I said roughly, sliding my hand under his skirt to find lace beneath. "Tell me this isn't what you really want."
Instead of answering, he grabbed my tie and yanked me down into a bruising kiss. It was messy and desperate, all teeth and tongue as years of repressed need finally broke free. He tasted like cherry lip gloss and danger, and I couldn't get enough.
I hitched him up, hands gripping his thighs as I carried him to my desk. The strength in his legs and firm muscle under my fingers made my head spin with want.
Papers scattered as I set him down, but I couldn't bring myself to care. Not when he was spreading his legs for me, skirt riding up to show those pretty pink panties. The sight of him like this made my mouth water. My beautiful baby, all laid out and wanting.
"You wearing these for me?" I traced over his cock through the delicate fabric. The sight of him like this, wanting this, made my head spin. Every certainty I'd ever had about desire felt meaningless.
"Fuck," he gasped as I rubbed him through the lace, his hips jerking up. "Please..."
His response hit me hard. The desperation in his voice, the way he moved under my touch… I wanted to consume him, possess him completely. Every gasp, every shiver belonged to me.
"So fucking perfect," I growled, watching him writhe. "Look at you."
"Please," he whimpered, grinding against my hand. "Need you to fuck me. Make it hurt."
Heat flooded my body at his words. "Yeah? Want me to wreck you?" I pressed my fingers against his entrance through the lace, feeling him clench. "Show you exactly who owns this?"
"God, yes," he gasped, fumbling for my belt. "Please, I need-"
A sharp knock at the door made us both freeze.
"Agent Valentine?" Algerone's voice carried through the wood, arctic and precise. "A word about tomorrow's mission parameters?"
Reality crashed back like a bucket of ice water. Christ. What the fuck was I doing? This was my boss's son, my trainee, someone I was supposed to be protecting. Not bending over my desk like some cheap fantasy.
I jerked away from Xander like I'd been burned, straightening my clothes with shaking hands. They stayed perched on my desk, lips swollen and skirt hiked up, looking utterly debauched. He met my gaze with defiant heat, even as shame churned in my gut.
“Go on,” I whispered. “Hop down and make yourself decent.”
He complied with that same fluid grace, though I caught the hurt that flashed across his face before his mask slipped back into place. By the time I opened the door, he was the picture of innocence, perched primly in a visitor's chair with his legs crossed.
But I could still see the mark I'd left on his neck, dark against pale skin. Still smell sex and cherry lip gloss in the air. Still feel the phantom press of lace under my fingers.
I opened the door to find Algerone immaculate as always, his expression unreadable as those cold green eyes took in the scene. The same eyes Xander had inherited, though his burned with life where his father's held nothing but calculation.
"Is this a bad time?" Algerone's voice dripped with subtle venom.
"Not at all." I gestured him in, keeping my voice steady. "We were just reviewing mission parameters."
"Indeed." His gaze flickered to where Xander sat, catching the mark on his neck before moving to the scattered papers on my desk. "Xander, you're dismissed. I need to speak with Agent Valentine alone."
Xander rose with fluid grace, but I caught the slight tremor in his hands as he smoothed his skirt. "Yes, sir." His voice was perfectly controlled, almost bored. Only someone who knew them well would hear the hurt beneath their practiced indifference. The mask they'd perfected long before joining the agency slipped firmly back into place.
He paused at the door, glancing back at me. For a moment, his mask slipped, and I saw raw need in those green eyes. Need for validation, for connection, for any sign that what had just happened meant something.
I deliberately looked away.
The door clicked shut behind him with terrible finality.
"I trust you understand the importance of maintaining appropriate training protocols?" Algerone's words were precise as scalpel cuts.
"Nothing inappropriate occurred." My voice was pure steel, matching his tone. Twenty years of law enforcement had taught me how to lie to protect others. "Xander is learning quickly. He'll be ready for the mission."
"About that." He placed a thick file on my desk with surgical precision. "Our surveillance has revealed some... interesting details about how Roche controls their pets."
He spread out several medical reports, shipping manifests for pharmaceutical supplies. "They're using a complex cocktail of drugs. Enough to keep victims compliant without completely compromising cognitive function. But here's what's fascinating..." He tapped one particular document. "Misha Vasiliev has been building a tolerance. Our chemical analysis suggests he's been deliberately resisting the effects."
I studied the reports with new interest. "You're saying he's more aware than he appears?"
"Precisely." Algerone's lips curved slightly. "And based on certain... behavioral patterns we've observed, he may be looking for an opportunity to act. The question is whether he'll be an asset or a liability when things go sideways."
The implications shifted my entire tactical assessment. A potential ally on the inside could change everything… if we could trust him. If the drugs hadn't broken him completely.
"I trust your team will factor this into your approach?" Algerone's tone made it clear it wasn't really a question.
"Of course, sir." The words felt less bitter now. Maybe we weren't just rushing in to save another victim. Maybe we were providing the opening Misha had been waiting for.
He left without another word, but my mind was already racing with new possibilities. Knowing Misha might be playing his own long game added another layer to our infiltration. We just had to hope his resistance was strong enough to make him an ally rather than a wild card when everything went down.
The moment I was alone, rage erupted. I swept everything off my desk in one violent motion, sending papers and photos scattering. The whiskey glass shattered against the wall, amber liquid bleeding down the expensive wallpaper.
"Fuck!" The word tore from my throat as I braced myself against the desk, chest heaving.
What the hell was wrong with me? Twenty years of iron control, of knowing exactly who and what I was. Now here I was, rutting against my boss's kid like some animal in heat. Worse, I'd pushed him away afterward, rejected him when he was at his most vulnerable. The hurt in those eyes would haunt me.
I could still taste him on my lips. Still feel the phantom press of lace under my fingers, the trust in his body as he yielded to me. God, he'd been so perfect, so responsive. And I'd thrown it back in his face.
The sensible part of my brain said this was for the best. Create distance now, before things got more complicated. Before I destroyed us both with whatever darkness lived in my blood.
But all I could think about was how he'd looked at me before leaving. How quickly that mask had slammed back into place, hiding the wounded person beneath. I knew his history, knew how abandonment triggered his worst spirals. And I'd just become another person who'd pushed him away.
I grabbed the bottle, not bothering with a glass. The burn of cheap whiskey did nothing to wash away the memory of cherry lip gloss, of desperate sounds swallowed in hungry kisses.
What had I done?
More importantly, what was Xander going to do now? The thought of him alone with that rejection, with his tendency toward self-destruction... Fuck. I should go after him. Should explain.
Instead, I took another drink and stared at the mess I'd made. Of my office. Of my carefully ordered life. Of whatever fragile trust Xander had placed in me.
Some monsters didn't deserve redemption. Maybe I was one of them.