I warmed the oil between my palms. It was an unscented blend because the nerve damage had made him hypersensitive to fragrances. He entered without his cane, pride making him hide weakness even from me, though the slight hitch in his gait revealed the cost.
He positioned himself face down on the table. "Begin."
I started with his shoulders, working through the chronic tension that had settled there. My fingers found each knot, each area of restriction, applying exactly the pressure needed to release without causing additional pain. His skin was warm under my palms, still carrying the subtle scent that was uniquely his despite the unscented soap he now used.
"The trapezius is particularly tight today, sir," I observed, keeping my voice professionally neutral. "Have you been compensating for the hip pain by altering your gait?"
No response, but the slight change in his breathing meant yes. I adjusted my technique accordingly, spending extra time on the compensatory patterns his body had developed.
I worked my way down his spine next, moving carefully around the surgical scars. His lower back required the most delicate work. The rebar that had pierced his back had done the worst damage, missing his spinal cord by millimeters. It was a miracle he could walk at all. A very expensive miracle. I used the heel of my hand in slow, careful circles, easing the resistance gradually. A sound escaped him. Not quite a sigh, not quite a groan. He immediately tensed.
"My apologies if I caused discomfort, sir," I said, though I knew I hadn't. That sound had been relief, perhaps even pleasure. But acknowledging that would break the carefully maintained fiction that this was purely medical.
"Continue," he said, voice rougher than before.
I moved to his left hip, the source of today's increased pain. The joint had been completely reconstructed, held together with enough titanium to set off airport metal detectors for the rest of his life. The surrounding muscles had atrophied during recovery, then been rebuilt through grueling physical therapy. The inflammation there was particularly noticeable that morning.
This required a different approach, gentle stretching combined with deep tissue work. I placed one hand on his lower back for stability, the other carefully manipulating his hip through its limited range of motion. He inhaled sharply when I found the worst adhesion.
"Breathe through it, sir," I instructed, not stopping the necessary work. "The restriction needs to be released."
For a moment, I thought he might tell me to stop. His hands clenched the edges of the table, knuckles white with strain. But then he forced his body to relax, surrendering in a way that sent an unexpected spike of warmth through my chest.
I had touched him every day for over a year and seen him at his most vulnerable, unable to walk, wracked with pain,dependent on me for basic needs. Through it all, I’d maintained a perfect professional distance. But sometimes, in moments like this, when his body yielded to my care, I remembered other surrenders that might have been.
Singapore. Twenty years ago. A mission gone wrong, too much whiskey in a hotel room, Algerone looking at me with heat in his eyes that had nothing to do with anger. His hand on my thigh, moving higher, and the words I'd said that changed everything: "You need to focus on the empire, not this. Not me."
This was the cruelest irony of my penance. I was finally touching him the way I'd denied us both in Singapore, but now it was obligation, not desire. The perfect punishment for my crimes.
What I’d done to Imogen Duchaucis was unforgiveable. I had no idea that her already fragile mental state was even worse after delivering Algerone's children. How could I have known? All I knew was that she was an obstacle to the future I’d decided was more important than her.
How could I have known she was suffering from schizophrenia and postpartum psychosis? How could I have known she'd slit her wrists in that bathtub? The answer was simple: if I'd seen her as a person instead of a romantic rival, it would’ve been clear.
But I hadn't, and because of my willful blindness, those boys had grown up as strangers, and Algerone had missed the one chance he'd ever have to be a father.
For twenty years I kept that secret. Twenty years of watching Algerone build an empire while his children grew up believing they were unwanted. That was what Xavier had forced me to confess eighteen months ago. That was what Algerone would never forgive.
"Turn over, please," I said when I'd finished with his back.
He moved carefully, mindful of his hip, settling onto his back, eyes closed. He always closed them for this part, unable orunwilling to risk meeting my gaze while I worked on his chest, his abdomen, the front of his thighs.
I started with his chest, working through the pectorals that had lost definition during recovery. My hands moved methodically, but my mind tracked every detail. The way his breathing changed when I worked near his ribs, the slight flex of his abs when I pressed too close to his sides, the heat of his skin gradually warming under my touch.
"Your range of motion has improved," I observed, carefully rotating his shoulder through its full arc. "The exercises are helping."
Still no response, but I hadn't expected one. I continued my work in silence, down to his abdomen where more surgical scars created a map of survival. Then to his legs, starting with the right, which had escaped major damage.
The left leg was different. The femur had been fractured in three places, the knee reconstructed. I worked with extra care here, knowing how much residual pain lived in these rebuilt bones and reattached tendons. My hands moved up his thigh, working the quadriceps that had fought so hard to return to strength.
A sound from the doorway made us both freeze.
"Xavier's here," a voice announced. Reid, Algerone's security chief, had his own access to the penthouse. "Says it's urgent."
Algerone's eyes snapped open, meeting mine for the first time in weeks. I expected rage, but there was something else there. Embarrassment at being seen like this? Or something more complicated?
"Send him up," Algerone said, already moving to sit.
I offered assistance, then stopped when he glared at me. He swung his legs over the side of the table, reaching for the robe I'd placed nearby. His movements were stiff, carefully controlled to hide the pain I knew he endured.
