Then we were alone, rain drumming against glass, the car still ticking with residual heat. I counted the seconds between ticks.
"Inside," he finally commanded. "We have things to discuss."
I followed him through the rain, both of us moving slowly. His cane clicked against the wet pavement. With each breath, my ribs screamed from Shaw's bullet, the fresh pain awakening echoes of Xander's earlier assault.
Inside, I moved to the bar without being asked, reaching for the Macallan. Some rituals transcended circumstance. A lifetime of anticipating his needs guided my hands as I poured twocrystal tumblers. My fingers remained steady despite my pain. They'd been steady when I'd played dead in Macau too. That's what separated us from ordinary people. We could pour whiskey and orchestrate death with equal focus.
Algerone watched me, favoring his right leg more than he'd admit. The fight with Shaw had cost him, maybe permanently, another scar for his collection and another price paid for survival.
"Sit your ass down before you fall down," he said as I handed him his glass.
I folded onto the leather sofa. The position sent fire through my sternum, but I kept my expression neutral.
"We need to discuss what happens now." He remained standing, using the bar for support rather than admitting weakness. "About forgiveness. About what you did. About what we are."
"Algerone..."
"Shut up. I'm talking."
I shut up.
"I understand why you did what you did with Imogen." He moved closer. "I even understand the logic. You'd built your entire existence around serving me. Around being indispensable. Children would have changed that dynamic. Maybe made you... less essential."
"Yes." No point in denying what we both knew.
"Here's the thing, Maxime." He stood directly in front of me now, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "I'm still fucking furious. Part of me wants to hurt you the way you hurt me. It wants to take twenty years from you in return. Blood for blood. Old Testament justice."
My pulse hammered, but I didn't move and didn't defend myself. This was penance, and I'd take whatever he chose to deliver.
"But when I thought Shaw had killed you..." His jaw clenched. "I became something I'd buried. Not Algerone Caisse-Etremont, CEO and strategist. Just Jackson Wheeler with better clothes and the same capacity for violence. The same possessive rage that made me cave in Shane's skull when I was seventeen."
"I know," I whispered. "I'm sorry. For making you become that. For lying there while..."
"While I grieved you." His voice cracked slightly. "While I thought I'd lost the one thing I couldn't survive losing."
"I know." The words were inadequate. "It was cruel. Even if it was tactical."
"Especially because it was tactical." He set his glass aside, both hands gripping his cane now. "That's what we do, isn't it? Turn everything into strategy. Even grief. Even loss."
"So here's our truth." His green eyes bored into mine. "I choose you anyway. Not because I forgive you. Not because love conquers all or any of that horseshit. But because the alternative would require me to become someone I'm not. Someone who can let go. And we both know I'm too fucked up for that."
The honesty of it knocked the air from my lungs more effectively than Shaw's bullet.
"This is what we are now," he continued. "Scarred. Angry. Choosing each other daily despite the damage. Can you live with that? Knowing I wake up pissed about what you took from me, then choose you anyway because I'm too twisted to do anything else?"
"Yes," I managed. "Because I'm just as twisted. I'd rather have your anger than anyone else's love. Because the day we met, I decided you were worth any price, and that hasn't changed."
"Christ." He laughed, but it held no humor. "We really are fucked up."
"Completely," I agreed.
The hard line of his jaw softened, and the tension in his shoulders eased. He'd made his choice. His hand left the cane, moving to cup my face gently.
"I need to touch you," he said quietly. "Need to know you're real. That you're here. That I didn't lose you in that fucking marble office."
I leaned into his palm. "I'm here. I'm sorry. I'm here."
His thumb traced my cheekbone, and his hand trembled slightly. The great Algerone Caisse-Etremont, shaking with the aftershock of almost losing what he couldn't name but couldn't live without.
