"That's enough for today," he said, not looking at me.
"Sir, we haven't completed..."
"I said enough."
The dismissal was clear, but before I could gather my supplies, he spoke again.
"I'm going back."
I froze, hands still holding the massage oil. "Sir?"
"To Lucky Losers. Tomorrow. I'm ready."
My heart stuttered, and my palms began to sweat, though I wasn’t sure if that was due to nerves or excitement. Some part of me still held out hope that, if he came back, if we went back to work as normal, maybe we could be normal again. I didn’t dare hope for forgiveness—not after what I’d done—but normal? Normal I could still wish for.
“Sir,” I began carefully, “Doctor Pierce hasn’t cleared you for work yet.”
“I don’t care,” he snarled and yanked the robe closed. “I’ve spent eighteen months rotting in here, taking healing baths, eating organic vegetables, enduring these massages and endless pills and injections. Eighteen fucking months.”
He rounded on me, and my heart jumped into my throat. In all that time, this was the most he’d ever said to me since he found out the truth.
“I’m not going to get any better,” he said firmly.
I swallowed and stepped forward. “There are other things we could—”
Algerone picked up his cane and slammed it against the hardwood. “I said I’m going back, Maxime.”
He was furious, but my knees still wanted to melt whenever he said my name.
I forced myself to take a deep breath and nodded. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."
"You'll handle it as you see fit." He stood, testing his weight on the damaged hip. "You always do."
"The Pentagon meeting," I managed. "General Kirsch has been waiting..."
"Set it for Monday. Full presentation of the Banshee project." He finally looked me in the eyes, and the impact stole my breath. "You'll attend, of course. As my COO."
My COO. Not just as the caretaker he'd tolerated. Not just as the ghost who'd haunted his recovery. But in my official capacity, at his side where I'd always been. Where I'd thought I'd never be permitted again.
"Of course, sir," I said, though my voice came out thin and reedy.
Xavier arrived then, his presence filling the doorway. Barely contained energy radiated from him. His orange and blue hair was more vivid than last time, his green eyes so like his father's.
I flushed as he took in my oil-slicked hands, and the way his father was glaring at me.
"Maxime," Xavier said, his tone carefully neutral. We'd reached a détente of sorts over the months. Him recognizing that Lucky Losers needed me, me accepting that I'd forever be the man who'd hidden him from his father. "Still playing nurse?"
"Still playing vigilante?" I countered, falling into our established rhythm.
"Boys," Algerone said, and we both turned to him. The word was wrong. Neither of us were boys, but it carried an odd fondness that made my chest ache. "What's the emergency?"
"Shaw," Xavier said, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "I have confirmation he’s been testing his own sonic weapon."
Gideon Shaw. Of course. The vulture had been circling since news of Algerone's injuries had leaked, testing Lucky Losers'defenses, probing for weakness. I'd fended off most of his advances, but some had slipped through.
"And how did his tests go?" Algerone asked cautiously.
“Complete failure.” Xavier stepped forward, holding out a thick dossier. “He did a demo for the Russians three days ago, and all reports indicate he’s at least eighteen months from having a working prototype.”
