"I said I would." I traced the edge of a bruise along his jawline, careful not to press.
Maxime's hand flew suddenly to his hair, eyes widening. "God, I must look..." He touched his mouth, self-consciousness washing over his features. "I should at least brush my teeth before you..."
"No." I caught his wrist, pulling his hand away. "I like seeing you like this. Undone. No one gets to see you this way but me."
A flush spread across his cheeks, something I'd never witnessed before, making him look almost boyish and bashful. This unguarded version of him stirred something in my blood just as potent as watching him destroy a rival in the boardroom.
"How's the pain?" I asked, giving him a moment to recover.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing as his ribs protested. "Manageable."
I sat up fully, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My damaged leg sent a bolt of white-hot pain up my spine. I gripped the edge of the mattress, riding it out, refusing to make a sound.
"Your leg." Maxime's hand found my shoulder, not offering help, just acknowledgment.
"Old news. Worse in the mornings."
"Mine too." He nodded toward his ribs. "We're not young men anymore." Maxime moved to stand. "Let me get us coffee."
"Stay." I pushed him gently back against the pillows. "I can manage."
His eyebrows rose slightly. In all our years, I had never served him, not once, and this reversal of our roles clearly unsettled him.
"Consider it an order," I said, my tone softening the command.
Ten minutes later, I returned with two steaming mugs. Maxime accepted his with a grateful nod, took a sip, then paused. His face remained perfectly neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes.
"It's..." he began diplomatically.
"Terrible," I finished, wincing at my own sip.
"Strong." He took another sip anyway, refusing to set the mug aside. "You made it for me."
I leaned forward, pressing my lips to his forehead, allowing myself this simple tenderness that would have been unthinkable days ago.
My mother had loved coffee. Even when there wasn't enough money for food, she'd find a way to buy those cheap grounds from the gas station. She'd serve it to Shane in chipped mugs, hoping the small gesture might soften his fists. It never worked.
I'd spent my entire life determined to avoid becoming either of them. I'd buried Jackson Wheeler so deep sometimes I forgot he had ever existed. But here, on this quiet morning with Maxime looking at me like I was worth something beyond power and control, old ghosts stirred.
My hand found his, and I laced our fingers together.
"Would you still want me if I were Jackson Wheeler?" I asked. "Not Algerone. Just the trailer park boy from Oklahoma."
Maxime's eyes widened briefly before a small smile touched his lips. "Would you still want me if I were just a Quebecois crime lord's son? We all come from somewhere, Algerone. I didn't fall in love with a name."
Love. He'd said it, and my breath caught in my throat, my chest tightening, ribs suddenly too small to contain what surged beneath them. In all our years together, through all the loyalty and service and devotion, neither of us had ever named this thing between us, not once, not until now.
I stared at him, searching for any sign of calculation or manipulation in his expression, but there was none, just raw honesty in those dark eyes that had watched me for so long.
I leaned forward, my lips brushing his. He tasted of sleep and yesterday's whiskey. His hand tightened in mine as he leaned into the kiss, mindful of his split lip.
The kiss deepened, his free hand finding my shoulder, my neck, the back of my head. I pulled back before hurting him, my thumb tracing the corner of his mouth.
"Your lip."
"Worth it." He tugged me closer, refusing to break contact.
My palm settled against his chest. His heartbeat pulsed steadily beneath warm skin. His breath caught when my thumb brushed across his nipple, the small bud hardening immediately. I rolled it between my fingers, watching his eyes cloud with desire, his back arching slightly, his lips parting, his pupils dilating.
