Forrest Chapter 29 Duty and Desire 360 #2
“The two men from last night’s breach. The compensation packages have been initiated. Make sure the families are visited. In person. Not just an online transfer.”
“I… I will. Thank you, Mr. Hatcher.”
My finger descends and the screen goes black.
No need to ask people if they need help when it’s simpler to figure out the problem and offer a solution before the time it takes to ask is wasted.
It’s faster, more reliable and it ensures no one else gets hurt because of a lapse I could have foreseen but didn’t take the initiative to look into.
With that situated I go back to reviewing bids line by line.
Renovations on some of the lower floors of our building have been made possible thanks to a burst pipe and an insurance payout.
We could have modernized them before but they were fine as is and we have money going to much more important endeavors than modernizing spaces that are only ever in use under dire circumstances.
One bid lists nothing but sub-par materials. I reject it outright. Another has labor costs inflated by twenty percent, probably thinking we’re desperate. Also rejected.
The one from Stone and Nail LLC catches my attention.
It’s a much smaller outfit and their bid is meticulous.
The project manager is a null shifter married to a human electrician.
Their references are solid. But on page fourteen they’ve specified a brand of sealant that has a known chemical reaction with the specific, luxury paint used in the spaces.
I never would have known about this if I hadn’t tried to find that exact paint to patch up a spot in another apartment.
The paint has a slight shine to it because it’s mixed with crushed pixie wings.
It’s a beautiful color and very unique but, due to obvious reasons regarding pixie rights and anti-cruelty initiatives, the paint was discontinued in the late 60’s.
It’s a niche, catastrophic flaw only someone who is extremely familiar with the building would know.
So I don’t just send it back for a correction. I open a new document and write the correction myself, in red, with three cited sources from the SI archives. Then I quickly draft an approval letter, stipulating the change, and calculate the new precise total down to the cent.
When the email has been sent off with the important documents I switch to the next task on my agenda. Inventory.
Miriam’s inventory regarding my little family is always excellent.
But this inventory isn’t for here. It’s for home.
The penthouse we reside in is a system, after all.
Its components require maintenance. I pull up the shared grocery delivery app—the one Kieran set up because he thought it would be "fun"—and open my private master list. It’s not about groceries. It’s about making sure everyone has what they need to function optimally.
I go down the list, ticking items off as I go.
Kieran’s top-shelf gin . The inventory list I absentmindedly put together before leaving shows the bottle is a third full. He drinks more when he’s running from the quiet. The level hasn’t dropped since a certain specter popped into our life. Good.
Emerson’s specific blend of oolong . The leaves are in an airtight canister on the second shelf back home.
I remember checking the seal before we left.
He’ll have three days’ worth remaining upon our return.
I add a new tin into the cart. The water filtration system also needs a new filter—one that meets our resident eccentric's high standard. Easy to do if you simply pay attention. With both of those things taken care of he won’t have any excuse to be distracted. Distracted by tea, that is .
Leandre’s medical stores . The shared inventory is technically sufficient.
But in the notes section, I add a line item for synthesized blood plasma, the specific brand he prefers but never requests due to the cost. It will be delivered to the service entrance in unassuming packaging and stashed away before anyone knows what it truly is.
He will find it, restocked, and say nothing.
I will also say nothing. It is simply a resource, should the need arise.
Anik’s preferred protein powder . Chocolate, not vanilla.
Anik will grunt and act as if either is sufficient but I know it is not.
The current container is nearly empty so I add two of his preferred flavor into the cart.
By the time we return, a new shake will be blendable by 7:00 AM. The routine will hold.
And for her. The hardest variable. The system’s newest and most volatile component.
The app has no category for something of her magnitude so I create a new note.
Guest room. Check the humidity levels upon return as the backs of her hands have been bothering her.
I’ve seen her itch at them and I don’t think she realizes they are simply dry.
I make another note to let Miriam know Raven is in need of some lotion as soon as possible.
She will get it sorted. To be safe I also add a humidifier to the shopping list. I can put it in her room.
To her, it will just be a diffuser for whatever scents she deigns to try.
Common area. I verify the weighted blanket has been delivered, unpacked, washed, and placed in her usual spot on the living room sofa. Then I send off a bonus to Silas for being willing to do as much.
Kitchen . I note the brand and variety of the mango she ate yesterday and restock it.
I review the cart and hit ‘schedule for delivery’. Everything in the cart is essential. Everything serves a function. I close the app and move back to shipping manifests and personnel updates.
The quiet of the house, the descent of the moon—it all registers as background noise. What I can't stop hearing is the countdown that began with Nyx's words out of Raven's mouth. A pressure in my temples. A weight on my spine. The clock is always ticking now.
I only realize the quiet has fallen when it’s broken by the softest of sounds: a door opening down the hall above me. Not Anik’s deliberate, sure tread. This one is lighter, purposeful but gentle.
Leandre.
A moment later, I hear the quiet shuffle of his feet stopping at the guest bedroom which sits almost directly above this little office. I think back to the bottle of champagne Raven clutched to her like a lifeline, the redness of her eyes when I talked to her, and the slight sway in her posture.
Of course Leandre has already thought of all of that. He's thought of her metabolic rate, the alcohol content, her lack of experience, the inevitable result. He is going to offer her water and remedies. Because that's what Leandre does. Because he knows what she needs without having to be told.
I don't have that.
A jagged, silent thing twists behind my sternum.
It isn’t jealousy. It’s the fact I am once again failing her by simply being me.
My brothers know what she needs.
I don't.
The answer sits heavy in my gut. I am the strategist, the disciplinarian, the wall.
My version of care is a gym floor, a strategic plan, the cold analysis and the brutal training designed to keep her alive.
My version of closeness… the images that surface are not of broth and cool cloths.
They are of dark corners and claiming hands, of my control fracturing into something demanding and absolute.
A fantasy I lock away because it is the opposite of care. It is consumption.
It is proof, undeniable evidence that a monster lives at the heart of my desire.
To want complete authority, to dictate every touch, every breath, to have her surrender not just her body but her will to my command…
it’s not intimacy. It’s a gargoyle’s hoarding instinct dressed in leather.
It’s my need for absolute order and fear of chaos, sexualized.
I want to contain her wildness, her divine unpredictability to something only I can touch, something I can mold into perfect submission. To use and appreciate exactly how I see fit.
It’s a corrupt desire to dominate the very thing I should protect. It’s me turning care into conquest. It’s me stripped of noble pretext and revealed as the thing I truly am, something monstrous, hungry, and possessive.
The ultimate hypocrisy chokes me. I, who demand discipline, would find my deepest thrill in withholding her pleasure. I would make her desperate, trembling—govern her ecstasy as proof of my authority. It turns trust into a transaction.
It's also not care; it's control.
Which feels like the exact opposite of the gentle, unconditional care Leandre is providing right now.
All of this points to one thing, and one thing only. I am unsafe.
Leandre offers healing. Anik offers protection. Kieran offers joy. Emerson offers obsessive devotion. And what do I offer? A trial. An evaluation. A set of rules where her surrender is the price of admission, and her pleasure is a currency I control. It’s not a gift; it’s a test.
The terror that strikes me when I think of her seeing that truth—that my deepest desire is to master her, to break her down only to rebuild her exactly to my specifications—she would look at me and finally see the monster I have worked so hard to cage.
I don’t deserve to touch her because my touch would only be a demand for submission, not an offering of love.
I look down at my hands. They are made for holding a weapon, for signing documents that carry the weight of lives, for pushing someone beyond their limits until they break or rise. They are not made for healing, for protection, for devotion.
I go to roll my shoulders, a futile attempt to dispel the tension, and feel a sudden, slight give in the fabric under my right arm.
I still, then carefully examine the seam of my suit jacket.
The stitching along the inner arm has been violently yanked apart, leaving a jagged two-inch tear.
The threads are frayed and chaotic, as if attacked by a furious, tiny animal.
This is the third jacket this week with identical damage.
I've also noticed socks missing from my drawer. Not pairs—singles. Three of them, from three different pairs. I've been too tired to track laundry properly, but the pattern is unusual enough to note.
I make a mental note to review the penthouse security logs. This isn’t wear and tear. It’s not a manufacturing flaw. This is deliberate, chaotic destruction. A breach in my environment. And breaches must be contained and sealed.
Leandre’s tread reaches the middle of the room above. I strip off the suit jacket—I can't solve this riddle, not tonight—and toss it onto a nearby chair. Then I bring my hand to my temple, pressing against the persistent throb of the migraine that I don’t think will ever leave me.
My pain does not matter. What matters is that Leandre is with her. The necessary function is being fulfilled by the right person.
I am not angry. I am just hollow. I listen as his footsteps leave the room once again and make their way into the kitchen. Each soft thud of his foot echoes inside me.
The hollow has felt physical lately, a cavern of fatigue my stone form refuses to seal.
The enforced stasis of my weekly reset—a hated but predictable vulnerability—has abandoned me.
No amount of willpower could force the petrification.
My body, like my control, was becoming unreliable, compromised by her persistent, chaotic presence.
You deserve better, too.
The words, unburying themselves and floating through my mind once again, force my body to move.
I deactivate both screens and stand. When I open the door into the hallway, I listen for the movements from the kitchen to stop.
For Leandre’s footsteps to make their way back up the stairs and into her room once again.
Once in the kitchen myself, I find Kieran’s Lagavulin. I don’t bother with a glass. I take the bottle and step out onto the front porch.
The mountain air is a physical shock, clean and brutal. I sink into the top step, the frost already seeping through my trousers. I take a long pull from the bottle and keep my skin from hardening to fight off the cold. I deserve to feel it. Take penance from it. It’s the least I deserve after all.
I’ll give myself this hour. The cold, the silence, the fire in my throat that feels like payment.
Then I’ll walk the perimeter. I’ll go back inside.
I’ll look at the spreadsheets until a pattern emerges.
I’ll be the wall. The hard-ass. The one who holds the line so the people I love can afford to be soft.
It’s the only role I haven’t failed at yet.
I cannot tend the flowers. But I can ensure nothing gets past me to trample them.