29. Twenty-Eight
Dawn crept across Paris like a guilty lover, painting our hotel windows in shades of pink and gold. I watched the light chase shadows across Xander's sleeping face, memorizing every detail. The fan of their lashes against porcelain skin. The perfect bow of their lips. The bruises I'd left bloomed across their throat like violets.
Soon we would have to wake him. Soon we would have to set Xavier's insane plan in motion. But for now, I let myself drink in the sight of him curled trustingly against my chest, vulnerable in ways he never allowed himself to be when awake.
The possessive darkness I'd inherited from my father stirred as I traced one finger along the marks decorating his throat. Mine. The word pounded through my blood with each heartbeat. But it wasn't just Xander I felt territorial about anymore. My gaze drifted to where Xavier slept on the couch, his laptop still glowing softly beside him. The similarities between them were striking in sleep. The same sharp cheekbones. The same deceptive fragility that hid lethal grace.
Both were mine to protect now.
My phone buzzed again. Another message from Nikolai, no doubt demanding updates on our increasingly unstable situation. But I couldn't bring myself to look at it. Couldn't face whatever new complications waited in those texts. Not when Xander was making soft sounds in their sleep, pressing closer like they could crawl inside my skin if they tried hard enough.
"You're thinking too loud again." Xavier's voice carried quietly from the couch, though his eyes remained closed. Even half asleep, he read emotional undercurrents like they were printed in neon. "Your anxiety is giving me a headache."
"Go back to sleep," I murmured, though we both knew that was impossible now. The weight of what waited for us pressed down like a physical thing, squeezing the air from my lungs.
"Can't." He sat up with fluid grace, already reaching for his laptop. "Too much to do. Too many variables to account for."
The gentle click of keys filled the room as he began whatever digital wizardry would transform us into exactly what Roche wanted to see. I watched his fingers dance across the keyboard, struck by how similar the precise movements were to Xander's knife work. Both brothers wielding their chosen weapons with deadly accuracy.
"Stop profiling me," Xavier said, without looking up. "I can feel you categorizing my tells."
"Can't help it." Twenty years of behavioral analysis didn't just turn off. "It's what I do."
"What you do is project your protective instincts onto convenient targets." Now he did look up, eyes sharp despite the early hour. "I'm not your responsibility, Ash. Not your asset to control."
"No?" I kept my voice low, conscious of Xander still sleeping against me. "Someone needs to look out for you. You can’t exactly stop me."
Xavier's expression shifted subtly as he studied me over his laptop screen. "You've moved me from 'asset' to 'family' in your threat assessment matrix." It wasn't a question. "Interesting adaptation to changing parameters."
"You sound like a computer analyzing data."
"Because that's what I do." His fingers never stopped moving across keys. "Just like you categorize behavioral patterns and calculate threat responses. We're not so different, you and I. Both trying to protect him in our own ways."
The observation hit closer to home than I cared to admit. We were mirrors of each other in some ways. Both were willing to break whatever rules necessary to keep Xander safe. Both hiding darker impulses behind carefully maintained control.
"The difference," I said quietly, "is that I have decades of field experience keeping assets alive. You're used to running ops from behind a screen."
"And now you need both." His smile held no warmth. "The field operative and the digital ghost. That's why this will work. Why we'll keep him alive."
Xander stirred against my chest, drawn from sleep by our quiet conversation. His eyes fluttered open, immediately finding mine with that mix of trust and need that made my chest tight. But there was something else there, too. Fear, poorly hidden beneath his usual mask of provocative confidence.
"Morning, precious," I murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. The endearment wasn't just for show anymore. Not when we were about to play the most dangerous game of our lives.
"You two are already plotting," he observed, voice still rough with sleep. His hand found mine under the sheets, fingers interlacing with desperate strength. "I can feel the schemes brewing from here."
"Just finalizing details." Xavier's typing never slowed. "Your new digital footprint is almost ready. Bank records showing a pattern of art purchases focusing on preservation techniques. Private gallery connections. Everything needed to make your wealthy crime novelist husband look like someone who shares Roche's particular interests."
I felt Xander tense at those words. At the reminder of exactly what role I would have to play. His grip on my hand tightened further.
"Speaking of which." Xavier finally looked up from his screen. "We need to discuss your approach. How you're going to convince Roche you're a kindred spirit without overselling it."
The clinical brutality of his analysis made my jaw clench. But he was right. This whole plan hinged on my ability to make Roche believe I was like them. That I saw beauty as something to be captured, preserved, owned completely.
"The key," Xavier continued, "is to present it as appreciation rather than obsession. You're not some desperate collector. You're a connoisseur. Someone who understands the artistry involved."
"The artistry of murder," I said flatly.
"The artistry of preservation." Xavier's correction was precise as a scalpel. "That's how Roche sees it. Not as killing, but as transforming beauty into something eternal."
Xander made a soft sound against my chest. I ran my fingers through his hair, trying to ground us both. "And you think they'll believe that coming from me?"
"They'll believe it because we'll give them proof." Xavier turned his laptop so we could see the screen. "Look."
A string of purchases flowed across the display. Private art sales focusing on preserved specimens. Taxidermy collections featuring rare and beautiful creatures. Museum donations specifically earmarked for preservation research. All carefully backdated and layered into financial records that would withstand scrutiny.
"Jesus," Xander breathed. "You did all that since last night?"
Xavier shrugged. “With Leo’s help. I didn’t give him details, though, so don’t worry. He was more than happy to help.”
I studied the records with a growing appreciation for Xavier's attention to detail. Every transaction told a story. Built a picture of someone with the wealth and inclination to appreciate Roche's particular brand of art.
"We already have our way in," Xavier said, pulling up news coverage of last night's chaos. Viktor's death was already being spun exactly as he'd predicted, portraying Roche as the victim of Russian mob violence. "You were there. You witnessed everything. It's the perfect excuse to reach out directly."
"A concerned patron," I mused, understanding where he was going with this. "Someone who was captivated by their private collection before all hell broke loose."
"Exactly." Xavier's fingers flew across keys. "The wealthy novelist, reaching out to express both concern and... deeper interests. After all, you had a front-row seat to their masterpiece in progress."
The casual way he referred to Misha made my gut turn. But he was right. I would need to see Viktor's death the way Roche did. Not as a father's desperate attempt to save his child, but as performance art. As beauty captured in the moment of transformation.
"The timing is perfect," Xavier continued, pulling up what looked like security camera feeds. "Roche is at their private residence now, playing grieving guardian for the press. They'll be expecting concerned calls from last night's guests. The question is..." His eyes met mine with clinical precision. "Can you make them believe you saw something more than tragedy in that moment?"
Xander's fingers dug into my thigh. "You mean can he convince them he got off on watching Viktor die?"
"No." I wrapped my arm around him, needing the contact as much as he did. "That I saw the artistry in it. The composition. The way blood on white marble created patterns like a Kandinsky brought to life." The words felt like poison in my mouth, but I made myself continue. Made myself think like the monster I needed to become. "The contrast of violence and beauty. The perfect framing of father and child reunited in that final moment."
"Jesus Christ." Xander's voice cracked. But Xavier was nodding, something like approval flickering across his features.
"Yes," he said softly. "That's exactly how you need to present it. Not as someone aroused by death, but as someone who recognizes the artistic vision behind it. Who appreciates the careful cultivation of perfect moments."
My phone felt heavy as lead when I picked it up. The number Xavier had provided would connect me directly to Roche's private line. One call to set everything in motion. To present myself as the kind of man who saw beauty in blood on marble floors.
"Remember," Xavier said, as I pulled up the contact. "You're not just expressing concern. You're laying groundwork for later discussions about commissioning your own pieces. About understanding their vision in ways others cannot."
Understanding their vision. Understanding why they turned living beauty into preserved art. Why they stole the light from Misha's eyes and replaced it with chemical obedience. The rage that thought triggered must have shown on my face, because Xavier leaned forward.
"Channel it," he said quietly. "Use that darkness. Let them see the monster in you and believe it's the same as theirs."
My finger hovered over the call button as I gathered that darkness close. Let it fill me like smoke, like shadow, like everything my father had tried to make me become. In my arms, Xander trembled slightly.
"I'm right here," he whispered, lips brushing my neck. "We both are. Whatever you become to make this work, we'll bring you back afterward."
The promise in his voice steadied me. Grounded me even as I prepared to let my careful control slip. To become the kind of man who could look at beauty and want to own it completely, permanently, eternally.
I hit call.
The line rang twice before a cultured voice answered in French. “Roche residence. This is Amanda. How may I direct your call?”
“Bonjour,” I answered and stuck to my best French. “My name is Asher Verity. I was wondering if I might speak to Mx. Roche? It’s about last night?”
“I apologize, Monsieur Verity, but Mx. Roche is very busy and—” There were suddenly voices in the background and Amanda paused, muttering “Oi,” twice before coming back on the line. “Ah, what luck! It appears Mx. Roche has just concluded his business. Let me transfer you to his personal phone. One moment, s'il vous pla?t.”
The line rang only once before Roche answered. "Monsieur Verity. What a pleasant surprise. I trust you and your lovely companion made it home safely after all the unfortunate excitement?"
"We did." I stroked Xander's back as I spoke, reminding myself what I was really fighting for. "And I do hope your companion is well? I can’t imagine what it must be like.”
“My pet’s father was a brute.” Roche snorted. “But he’s resting and recovering. And he appreciates your concern.” There was a slight pause. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Monsieur Verity?”
“I must admit,” I said carefully, “I cannot stop thinking about that final display.”
“It was quite a moment, wasn’t it? More excitement than I was expecting.”
Xavier pulled up the front page of some French newspaper and spun his laptop around, showing me a gruesome crime scene photograph from the night before.
“Have you seen the picture in Le Clairon this morning?” I asked.
“I…No.” Papers rustled. “And I thought I’d seen all the papers with my photograph in them.”
“Oh, pardon me. I misspoke. The photo isn’t of you. It’s of the aftermath of what happened. Blood on the tile floor.” I paused and took a breath. “I must admit, there’s a certain…beauty to the composition. An elegance to the way Viktor’s blood spills across the marble. Almost as if it’s telling a story.”
Another pause, longer this time. When Roche spoke again, there was new interest in their voice. "Most found the violence rather distasteful."
I laughed. "Most people aren’t me," I replied, choosing my words with surgical precision. "There’s a reason I became a crime novelist. There’s so little passion in the world anymore. So little beauty. Any old fool could throw paint on a canvas and call it art. Real talent—talent like yours—is so rare. Many artists don’t have vision. They cannot see the artistry in transformation. In capturing the exact moment beauty becomes eternal."
I could practically feel Roche's attention sharpen through the phone. "How fascinating that you should phrase it that way. I so rarely meet others who truly understand the preservation of perfect moments."
I sighed heavily. “You know, I was just telling my lovely spouse how beautiful he is. It’s a pity that beauty can’t be so preserved. A pity that most of us don’t die in our prime, when we’re at our most…beautiful.”
"Your spouse?" A soft laugh. "The lovely creature in black silk? Yes, I remember being quite taken with his... particular qualities."
My grip on Xander tightened possessively even as I made myself chuckle. "He does tend to leave an impression."
"Yes." Roche's voice held new warmth through the phone line. "He made quite the impression at our little soiree. Such perfect bone structure. The kind of beauty that deserves... special attention."
My fingers dug into Xander's hip hard enough to bruise as possessive rage threatened to shatter my careful control. But I made myself laugh, the sound coming out dark and appreciative. "He does inspire rather specific appetites, doesn't he?"
"Indeed." The predatory interest in Roche's tone made my skin crawl. "Though I must admit, I'm curious what draws someone like you to such... particular interests. Most find my methods of preserving beauty rather unconventional."
I stroked Xander's back as I chose my next words with surgical precision. "Convention is for those who lack vision. Who can't see the artistry in transformation. In capturing that perfect moment when beauty transcends its physical form to become something eternal."
"Transformation." Roche savored the word like fine wine. "Such an elegant way to describe it. Though most would use cruder terms."
"Most people can't appreciate true art." I let genuine darkness color my voice as I watched dawn paint gold across Xander's skin. "They see only the surface. The violence. The loss. They don't understand that some beauty is too precious to be allowed to fade."
Xander shivered against me, but I couldn't stop now. Couldn't break character when we were so close to making Roche believe.
"When I saw what happened last night," I continued carefully, "I was struck not by the tragedy, but by the composition. The way arterial spray painted patterns across white marble like living art. The perfect positioning of father and child in their final embrace. It was..." I paused deliberately. "Breathtaking."
"Monsieur Verity." Roche's voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I believe you and I have much to discuss. Perhaps over dinner tonight?"
"Of course," I forced warmth into my voice, though bile rose in my throat. "Though I should mention my spouse can be... skittish about new experiences. I find certain chemical assistance helps him remain... agreeable."
"Ah." The understanding in Roche's tone made my skin crawl. "Yes, I'm quite familiar with that particular challenge. My own companion requires similar... management. There are some rather effective compounds that help beauty remain compliant."
"How fascinating." I stroked Xander's back as I chose my next words carefully. "I would be very interested in comparing notes. Eight o'clock, you said?"
"Perfect. I'll have Amanda send the details." Roche's smile was audible. "I look forward to showing you both my collection."
The moment the call ended, I flung the phone away like it had burned me. "Jesus fucking Christ."
"You did well." Xavier's voice was clinically precise. "Let them see exactly what they needed to see."
"Did I?" The rage I'd suppressed during the call threatened to choke me. "Because what I just did was convince a psychopath I want to turn Xander into a fucking art piece."
"No." Xander's hand found my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "What you did was give us a way in. A way to stop them before they hurt anyone else."
"He's right." Xavier was already typing again. "The drug angle is perfect. Gives us a believable reason why Xander would be present despite normal survival instincts. Plus, it aligns with how they control Misha."
"I don't like it." The words came out rougher than intended. "Putting you in a vulnerable position like that."
"Better vulnerable than dead." Xavier's smile was sharp. "And we can control exactly what kind of vulnerable. Something that looks like compliance without actually compromising function."
I caught his meaning immediately. "You want to fake the effects?"
"Better." He pulled up what looked like chemical formulas. "Something real enough to show in a blood test, but carefully calibrated. Just enough to make him seem pliant without actually being helpless."
"No." The word came out like a growl. "Absolutely not. We're not actually drugging him."
"We have to." Xander's voice was soft, but certain. "You know we do. They'll be watching for exactly that kind of deception."
The rational part of my brain knew they were right. Knew this was our best chance at maintaining cover while keeping everyone alive. But everything in me rebelled against deliberately making Xander vulnerable.
"Think about it." Xander turned in my lap to face me fully. "I have enough residual tolerance that a careful dose would give the physical signs they expect to see without completely compromising function. My pupils would dilate, my responses would slow, but I'd still be alert enough to react if needed."
"He has a point." Xavier's voice was clinically precise. "They'll be looking for specific physiological markers. Pupillary response. Muscle tension. Basic reflexes. Things that can't be faked through performance alone."
"You're talking about deliberately taking whatever the fuck Roche is using to control Misha." The words came out rough with suppressed rage. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"
"Less dangerous than trying to fool them with just acting." Xander's hands found my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You've seen how thoroughly they watch him. One missed detail and our cover is blown."
"And what happens if something goes wrong?" I couldn't keep the protective fury from my voice. "If the dose is too high or you have an unexpected reaction?"
“I know my body,” Xander insisted. “I know what I can handle.”
"You're both insane." But I could hear the defeat in my voice. Could see the tactical logic even as everything in me screamed to protect Xander from this risk.
"Maybe." Xander pressed closer, offering comfort even as we planned to put him in danger. "But we're also right. This is our best chance at making it convincing enough to get close to Roche."
I buried my face in his hair, breathing in his familiar scent while I could still be certain it was untainted by chemicals. "I hate this."
"I know." His lips brushed my throat. "But you'll be there to keep me safe. Both of you will."
"Always." The word came out like a growl.
Shadows lengthened across our hotel suite as I stared at my reflection, trying to find my father in the lines of my face. The same heavy brow. The same cruel set to the mouth when I let my careful control slip. Twenty years running from his legacy, and now I needed to become him completely.
I closed my eyes, remembering how he would survey his collection of preserved butterflies, each perfect specimen pinned and labeled with scientific precision.
The bespoke suit felt like a second skin as I opened my eyes, letting that familiar darkness seep through. I had spent decades building walls against this part of myself. Now I needed to let it all come flooding back.
"People are just like butterflies," he had told me, words slurred with expensive scotch as he pressed another pin through delicate wings. "Pretty to look at, but fragile."
I watched my expression shift in the mirror as I let his words fill me. Let myself become the son he had always wanted. The kind of man who could look at Viktor bleeding out on marble floors and see only the beauty in stillness. In silence. In perfect, permanent submission.
Xander caught my eye in the reflection as he slid into the white silk dress. But I forced myself to see him as my father would. As Roche would. Not as someone to protect, but as a specimen to pin down. To own. To make perfectly, permanently still.
"Almost time," Xavier said softly from his position by the windows. His fingers never stopped moving across his laptop keys as he monitored surveillance feeds around Roche's estate. The constant click of typing had become its own kind of warfare rhythm, marking time until we had to move.
I stayed in character as I crossed to Xander, letting my father's possessive nature color every movement. My hands found his hips with bruising force as I studied our reflection. The picture we presented was exactly what Roche would want to see. Not a protector and his charge, but a collector and his prize. A connoisseur who understood that true beauty only emerged once you stripped away the illusion of free will.
"Last chance to back out," I murmured against his ear, my voice carrying that same cultured cruelty I remembered from childhood lessons about power and ownership.
His smile in the mirror was sharp as a blade. "Since when have I ever made the safe choice?"
"Never." I tightened my grip, watching him wince. Letting myself enjoy his submission the way my father would have. "That is what makes you such perfect gallery material."
"Hey." He turned in my arms, and for a moment I saw a flash of concern in his eyes. He could see how deep I was letting myself sink into this role. Into the darkness I had inherited. "I trust you. Even like this."
The weight of that trust should have anchored me to my true self. Instead, I let it feed the monster I was becoming. Let myself imagine preserving that trust forever, keeping him exactly as he was in this moment. Perfect. Mine. Eternal.
"We should go." Xavier's voice barely penetrated the haze of possession I had wrapped around myself. "It’s time."