I lifted an eyebrow.
"You heard me."
I unbuttoned my shirt with fingers that wanted to shake. I wouldn't let them. I didn't show weakness, even when my body was a roadmap of fresh violence.
Maxime sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of my bare torso. The bruising had deepened during the flight, spreading across my chest in ugly patches of purple and black. His breathing quickened as he stared, and something hot coiled low in my stomach at the hunger in his dark eyes.
I cut the thought off. Business first.
"Rosewood," I said, because he was calculating damage behind those dark eyes. "Shaw's desk. Solid piece. Probably eighteenth century."
"Probably worth a fortune," he murmured, hands already moving. "This is going to hurt."
His fingers found my shoulders, digging into the knotted muscles there. The pain that followed was immediate, overwhelming, necessary. Like being broken apart and rebuilt by someone who understood exactly how much pressure to apply. Those same hands had signed death warrants in my name, had held my empire together through careful calculation.
Now they worked me like clay that needed reshaping. The intimacy of it made my blood run hot despite the pain. Every press of his fingers against bare skin sent dual signals through my nervous system: agony and arousal, punishment and worship. My cock stirred as he leaned closer, his breath warm against my neck.
I let myself have it this time. I let myself think of what I'd denied for thirty years. These hands, this attention, this careful reconstruction of my ability to function… All mine. They had been mine for decades without me realizing it was mine to claim.
My cock hardened despite the pain, despite the exhaustion.
Then footsteps in the corridor reminded me that privacy was always temporary.
"Sir." Reid stood at the threshold between sections, black suit replacing tactical gear. "We need to discuss the welcoming committee."
Maxime's hands anchored me as I reached for my shirt. His touch lingered longer than necessary, fingers trailing across my skin like a brand. "How many microphones?"
"Full circus. Pentagon wants a press conference before your feet hit American soil. The FBI's got questions, but the friendly kind: you put down a terrorist who murdered over a thousand innocent Americans." Reid's tablet glowed in his hands. "Stock's up fourteen percent since news broke about Shaw's Oklahoma attack."
Shaw's market manipulation had backfired so spectacularly it almost made the body count worthwhile. Dead terrorists sold weapons contracts better than live salesmen.
"Statement?" I asked.
"Legal's prepared three versions, depending on how much operational detail you want bleeding into the public record."
"Team status?"
"Breathing. Proud of it. Ready to go home and pretend they solve problems with spreadsheets instead of bullets." Reid's grin turned predatory. "Clean work, sir. Surgical. Minimal collateral damage, maximum impact, objective secured."
The Banshee prototype rode in our cargo hold, never again to roast wheat fields or turn suburban neighborhoods into open-air morgues. Shaw's auction house was permanently out of business.
More importantly, everyone I gave a damn about had survived. Maxime, who'd taken a bullet and turned it into theater. My sons, who'd watched their father choose blood overdiplomacy one last time. Reid's team, who'd followed me into hell and dragged salvation out by its throat.
"Outstanding work," I said sincerely. "That'll be all."
He nodded and melted back into the forward cabin shadows. Maxime resumed his work, hands finding stress patterns that had formed during our conversation. The pain was lessening, muscles unclenching under attention they'd never received in three decades of accumulating damage.
"Press conference," I said. "How functional do you need me to be?"
"Functional enough for thirty minutes of theater." Maxime's certainty could have stopped bullets. "Then home. Then healing."
Home. The word tasted different now, carrying implications that hadn't existed a week ago. Not just my house and his sterile mansion, but shared territory. Space claimed and defended by two predators instead of one calculating bastard's careful isolation.
I caught myself dwelling on it and forced my attention back to logistics.
"Your children are waiting," Maxime said. "Xavier called during your power nap. Airport pickup confirmed. All three. Together."
His hands moved lower, finding the junction where spine met pelvis, where Shaw's violence had compressed vertebrae into agony. His fingers worked so close to areas I wanted them to explore. Those hands were inches from my ass, but I could imagine them gripping, claiming, marking territory they'd never been permitted to touch. His breath hitched slightly as he worked the sensitive area.
