"Thank you, sir."
Three words. That's all he had. Not "stay with me." Not "hold me." Not even my name. Just gratitude. Just acceptance.
I released his softening cock and rose from the bed. Then, I crossed to the bathroom and washed his release from my fingers while my reflection stared back at me.
He'd given me everything tonight. His body, his dignity, his tears. And he'd asked for nothing. Demanded nothing. Thirty-two years, and the man still didn't understand what I wanted from him.
Maybe he never would.
When I returned to the bedroom, he was still sprawled where I'd left him. Boneless. Wrecked.
I picked up my shirt from the floor.
"Algerone?" His voice cracked.
"Clean yourself up." I fastened the buttons without looking at him. "We’re leaving for Vancouver in two hours."
Silence. Then the rustle of sheets.
"I... yes. Of course."
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
"Sir? Did I do something wrong?"
The question hung there. Such a Maxime question. Always worried about failing me. Never worried about what he deserved.
"Get dressed and ready to leave, Maxime."
I pulled the door shut behind me.
The living room wasdark. I stood at the window, watching Cincinnati glitter forty stories below.
He would clean himself up, prepare the briefing and appear looking immaculate, like nothing had happened. He wouldn't ask why I had left. Wouldn't demand anything. That's what Maxime did.
He had never pushed for acknowledgment. Never once did he say, "I'm doing this because I love you, and you owe me something in return."
I'd thought tonight might crack him open. Thought the subspace might strip away enough of his control that he'd finally reach for what he wanted. Finally, fight for it.
Instead, he thanked me.
I drained the whiskey and headed for my study. I was starting to wonder if he even knew how to fight for himself anymore. Or if I'd trained that out of him decades ago.
The shower ran coldbefore I realized I'd been standing under it for twenty minutes.
I turned off the water and reached for a towel, moving through the motions the way I'd moved through every motion for the past eighteen months, one task then the next. That was how I survived.
Reid needed the tactical briefing by midnight. Algerone had given me an order, and I would follow it, because following orders was what I did and what I'd always done.
I dressed in fresh clothes: charcoal pants and a white shirt, no tie. The fabric covered the marks on my thighs, the welts from the riding crop that still throbbed when I moved. By morning they'd be fading, like everything else.
My tablet waited on the desk in the study, the briefing document half-finished from this afternoon. I sat down and pulled up the file. Vancouver, Shaw's location, tactical approach vectors. The words blurred on the screen.
Reid's team would need satellite imagery of the warehouse district. I had the files from Archer's analysis. I just needed to compile them, add the personnel assessments, cross-reference with Shaw's known security protocols. It was two hours of work, maybe less if I could focus.
My hands were shaking.
I set the tablet down and pressed my palms flat against the desk, waiting for the tremor to pass. It didn't. My fingers trembled against the polished wood like I was back in those first hours after the explosion, running on caffeine and terror while Algerone lay in a medically induced coma and the doctors wouldn't tell me if he'd ever wake up.
