"Granted." Algerone's voice betrayed nothing. "Tell him to prioritize stability over schedule."
I typed the response, then set the tablet aside. Another lightning flash transformed the cabin into stark relief, followed by turbulence violent enough to rattle the crystal decanters in their custom holders. Algerone's jaw clenched tighter, and his hand moved toward his thigh before he caught himself, fingers curling into a fist instead.
"Perhaps some whiskey," I suggested. "The Macallan. It might help with the chill."
His eyes met mine. "Fine," he said after a moment.
I poured the whiskey the way he preferred it: two fingers, one cube of ice. The amber liquid caught the cabin's low light as I brought it to him, and our fingers brushed during the exchange. The contact sent electricity arcing up my arm.
He noticed, because nothing escaped those eyes.
"Thank you," he said, and the formality was a wall I'd built myself, brick by brick, through thirty-two years of "sir" and "of course" and carefully maintained distance.
"You're welcome, sir."
Another wave of turbulence passed through the cabin. He sipped his whiskey, shifting position in a futile attempt to find relief for his hip. I knew that particular restlessness well. Onbad days at the penthouse, he'd move from chair to chair, bed to couch to the specially designed recliner in the therapy room, never finding comfort.
"You're in pain," I said. "The barometric pressure."
"And?"
"I can help." The words came automatically, the same offer I'd made every morning for eighteen months. I moved toward the couch to retrieve a pillow for my knees, already planning the sequence: start with his calf, work upward, spend extra time on the hip.
"No."
The word stopped me mid-stride.
"You don't get to do that anymore." His voice was quiet, which made it worse. Algerone's anger I could weather, but his quiet was something else entirely. "You don't get to kneel at my feet and pretend you're helping when what you're really doing is trying to make me forget."
"I'm not trying to make you forget."
"Then what are you trying to do, Maxime? Seduce me into forgiveness? Touch me until I stop seeing my sons’ faces every time I look at you?"
"No," I said. "I know you won't forgive me."
"Then what?"
I didn't have an answer, or rather, I had too many answers, none of them adequate. I wanted to touch him because touching him was the only language I had left. I wanted to ease his pain because his pain was my pain. I wanted to kneel because kneeling was the only position that felt honest anymore.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I just want to be useful to you."
He rose from his chair, testing his weight on the damaged hip, and crossed the distance between us. His gait was uneven instead of the smooth stride I remembered from before. I'd donethat to him too, in a way. The stress of my revelation had delayed his recovery by weeks, according to Dr. Pierce.
He stopped close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the subtle cologne he'd started wearing again last month.
"You want to be useful?" His hand came up to grip my jaw, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks. "Fine. But you don't get to set the terms anymore. You don't get to decide what form your service takes."
"I never—"
"You always have." His grip tightened. "For thirty-two years, you've been managing me. You decided what I needed before I knew I needed it. You decided who I'd spend my nights with, which companions were appropriate, which ones might become inconvenient." His thumb pressed against my lower lip, the touch almost bruising. "You decided my children were inconvenient."
He was right. I'd looked at Imogen Duchaucis and seen an obstacle, not a person. I'd made a decision that wasn't mine to make, and I'd made it without hesitation.
"Yes," I said against his thumb. "I did."
"You're not sorry you did it. You're sorry I found out. But if Xavier hadn't forced your hand, you'd have taken that secret to your grave."
I wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn't come.
