Page 6

I woke up to sunlight streaming around Xavier's blackout curtains, which meant it had to be at least noon. The events of last night crashed over me in waves: the fire, the escape, the motorcycle ride, and then... Oh god. Then.

My face burned as I remembered rutting against Xavier's thigh like some desperate teenager, his voice calm and controlled while I fell apart. Something fractured inside my chest at the memory, splintering between shame and a hunger so fierce it felt like drowning. The ghost of his hands still lingered on my hips, a phantom pressure guiding me into a rhythm that my body remembered even as my mind struggled to process what had happened.

The bed beside me was empty, but the sheets still held his warmth, his scent. When had he slipped away? I remembered falling asleep pressed against his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear, his arm wrapped possessively around my waist. Now there was just an empty space where he should have been. I pressed my face into his pillow, breathing in deeply. The lingering scent of his skin sent a fresh jolt of want through me.

My abuela would have crossed herself if she could see inside my head right now. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Xavier had watched me come with those calculating eyes. The way he'd held me steady, making me chase my own pleasure like it was a test I needed to pass. The surprising gentleness in his voice when he'd finally given me permission.

I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand, delaying the inevitable moment when I'd have to go downstairs and face everyone. The door opened, and my breath caught in my throat.

Xavier stood in the doorway, a towel slung dangerously low on his hips, water droplets still clinging to the tattoos that covered his chest and arms. The health bar over his heart seemed to glow against his skin, its green pixels stark against pale flesh. His usually bleached and colored hair was darker when wet, plastered to his forehead in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable than he’d seemed in the dark.

"Morning, Sunshine," he said. "Did I wake you?"

I couldn't speak, couldn't look away. I'd seen him shirtless before, of course, but this was different. This was after. After his hands on my body, after his mouth on mine, after everything between us had shifted into something new and terrifying and exhilarating.

"You okay?" He moved to his dresser, pulling out clothes with his usual economic movements. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Fine," I managed, my voice embarrassingly hoarse. "Just... processing."

The smirk that curved his lips shifted into something softer, more uncertain. "Yeah. I'm processing too, if that helps."

The admission caught me off guard. Xavier Laskin didn't admit to uncertainty. Ever. He navigated the world with absolute conviction. This glimpse behind his carefully maintained facade felt like a rare gift.

"You're... processing?" I couldn't help the question, couldn't stop myself from wanting to understand this new territory we were exploring together.

He turned away, dropping the towel without warning. I couldn't look away fast enough—didn't want to look away—as my eyes locked on the lean muscle of his ass, the surprising curve of it, the dimples at the base of his spine. My brain short-circuited as I processed what I was seeing combined with last night's revelation.

All this time I'd fantasized about Xavier dominating me, holding me down, taking me. I'd never even considered that he might want me inside him instead. The image hit me with unexpected force: Xavier beneath me, his pale skin flushed, those calculating eyes watching my every move as I pushed into him. My mouth went dry at the thought, a new kind of want surging through me that I hadn't allowed myself to imagine before.

He glanced over his shoulder as he reached for his boxers, catching me staring. Instead of the cold calculation I expected, something almost playful flickered across his face. "See something you like?"

My face burned hotter, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. "Maybe."

His eyebrows shot up, clearly surprised by my boldness. For a moment, he seemed caught off-guard, the mask of control slipping to reveal something almost... pleased? Then it was gone, replaced by his usual calculated intensity as he pulled on his jeans.

"Hand me that shirt from the dresser, would you?" he asked, gesturing to a black band tee.

I grabbed the shirt he wanted and crossed the short distance between us. Instead of tossing it to him, I held it out, forcing him to step closer to take it. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, sending electricity up my arm.

"I've been thinking," he said, pulling the shirt over his head, "about last night."

"Oh?" I tried to sound casual, but my heart hammered against my ribs. "What about it?"

He stepped closer. "I told you I'd figure out how to make this work. For both of us."

"And have you? Figured it out?" The questions came out bolder than I felt, testing boundaries I'd never dared push before.

"Getting there." His fingers brushed my cheek, feather-light but deliberate. "I realized something this morning. When I woke up with you."

"What's that?" My voice came out embarrassingly breathless.

"I liked it." The simple admission carried weight I couldn't fully quantify. "Having you there. In my space. In my bed." His eyes darkened as his hand dropped to my throat, thumb pressing gently against my pulse point. "And I liked making you come."

I swallowed hard against his palm. "I thought that might be just... I don't know, tactical? To snap me out of a panic attack?"

Something like frustration flashed across his face. "Is that what you think? That I'd use sex as a... a tool?"

"You use everything as a tool," I pointed out, even as his fingers tightened slightly on my throat. "You're the most strategic person I know."

“This is different." He searched my face, clearly struggling to articulate something. "I'm still figuring this out, Leo. What I feel. What I want. But I know I want you. Not just as my friend."

"I thought you were sure of everything," I said quietly. "You're always so certain."

"Not about this." His hand moved from my throat to cup my face. "I've never wanted someone the way I want you."

"And how's that?"

He was quiet for a long time. "Last night changed something for me. When I woke up this morning with you in my arms, I wanted to touch you. Not just to hold you, but to feel you against me. To make you come again. That's never happened before. But with you..." He paused, searching for words. "It felt different. I want things… in a way that’s unfamiliar to me."

"What does that mean for you?" I asked, barely breathing.

"It means I don't know what I am anymore." He shook his head, frustration evident in the tight line of his mouth. "All this time I've been so certain about being ace, about not experiencing sexual attraction. But maybe..." He looked at me, really looked at me, his eyes searching mine. "Maybe I just needed the right connection first. The right person."

"That sounds like demisexuality," I suggested carefully.

"Maybe." He shrugged, the gesture containing more uncertainty than I'd ever seen from him. "Or maybe it's just you. Maybe you're the exception to every rule I thought defined me."

He sat next to me on the bed, close enough that our thighs pressed together, and reached out to brush his thumb along my jaw. The gesture wasn't playful but exploratory, like he was testing his own reactions as much as mine.

"I've also been thinking about other ways we might explore what this is." His grip tightened just slightly, enough to make my breath catch.

My pulse raced beneath his thumb. "Oh?"

"How do you feel about BDSM?"

The unexpected directness of the question made me blink. "I... what?"

His fingers remained on my throat, thumb tracking my pulse. "Bondage. Domination. Sadism. Masochism." He spoke each word deliberately, watching my reactions. "It's one area where I've always felt... connected. Present. Even without conventional sexual attraction."

"Oh." I swallowed hard against his palm. "I don't have much experience with it."

"But you're not opposed?"

"No," I admitted, heat rushing to my face. "I'm not opposed at all."

A slight curve touched his lips, not quite a smile, but something equally dangerous. He stood and stretched. "God, I’m starving. You hungry?"

“I…Yeah. I could eat.”

I let him pull me to my feet, trying not to think about how domestic this felt. How right. He watched with obvious satisfaction as I pulled on his clothes. The weight of his gaze felt like another kind of possession.

The stairs creaked under our feet as we descended into the morning chaos. Voices and cooking sounds drifted up to meet us, everything feeling different in the daylight. Softer but also more real. More permanent.

Annie stood at the counter when we entered, fiddling with the coffee maker. "Morning, boys."

"Our sleeping beauty awakens," Tatty called from her spot by the stove. My mouth watered at the smell of whatever fried pastries she was making.

Nikita maintained his careful stillness behind his section of the paper, the kind of pointed non-reaction that meant he analyzed every detail while appearing completely disinterested. Misha—Michael Laskin now, at least on paper—sat at the far end of the table, picking delicately at a piece of dry toast.

"You need more than toast," Annie said, sliding a plate with two pastries in front of him. When he started to protest, she fixed him with the look that had cowed mercenaries and vigilantes alike. "Doctor's orders. You're still recovering."

"I'm fine," Misha murmured, but his shoulders hunched slightly at the attention. His fingers twisted in the sleeves of his oversized sweater.

"You're both too skinny," Annie declared, already adding food to my plate as well. "Xavier, sit. You're not hunting anyone until you eat."

Xavier's hand settled possessively on my hip as he guided me to a chair. "We're fine, Mom."

"Of course you are," Annie agreed easily, but more food appeared anyway. She sat a glass of strawberry milk by Misha’s plate and pretended not to notice when he started sipping it between small bites of actual breakfast.

The kitchen settled into its usual morning chaos of coffee cups and newspaper sections being passed around, punctuated by conversations in mixed Russian and English. But an undercurrent of awareness ran beneath the normalcy, like people were deliberately dancing around mentioning what had happened last night.

The matter of shopping came up as Annie started gathering empty plates.

"He needs basics at least," she said, eyeing my borrowed clothes. "Toiletries..."

"The clothes are fine," Xavier cut in, his tone holding that possessive edge that made my stomach flip. "He looks good in mine."

"Xavier," Annie sighed. "He can't wear your hoodies forever."

"Why not?" Xavier's hand settled on my thigh under the table, grip tightening slightly. "They suit him."

Tatty paused in her cleaning of the stove, earrings clinking softly as she turned. "Your family, Leo. They should know you're safe, da? I can call them, let them know what happened."

The kitchen went quiet. Even Xavier's hand stilled on my thigh.

"They, um." I stared at my coffee, watching the surface ripple as my hands shook slightly. "We don't really talk anymore. Not since I came out."

"Ah." Tatty's voice held understanding. "Their loss then. They miss seeing what a good man you became."

"More family for us," Yuri said quietly.

Nikita grunted and turned a page in the paper. "Sometimes chosen family is better than blood."

Xavier's fingers interlaced with mine under the table. "He's right. You've got us now."

"Besides," Misha whispered from his corner, fingers twisting in his sleeve, "you make X happy. That makes you family."

"But you still need things of your own," Annie cut in smoothly, recognizing my need for a subject change. "Even if Xavier wants you in his clothes."

"Just enough basics," Xavier conceded, though his thumb stroking my palm suggested he had very specific ideas about what constituted basics. "And Misha can help choose."

“We should pick up Xander,” Misha suggested. “He’ll be upset if you don’t.”

"Perfect." Xavier squeezed my hand one final time before standing. "Let's get ready."

"Yeah." I pushed away from the table, needing to move. "Let me just grab my shoes."

"And a jacket," Annie called after me. "It's cold out."

The voices from the kitchen faded as we climbed the stairs, replaced by the comfortable silence that had always existed between us. But now that silence held new possibilities, new questions, new potential.

"Misha's going to be okay, right?" I asked as we reached the bedroom. "He seems... fragile."

Xavier's expression softened slightly. "He's stronger than he looks. What Roche did to him..." His jaw tightened. "But he's healing. Having a place here helps."

I nodded, understanding what he wasn't saying. That chosen family mattered. That home wasn't about the walls around you, but the people inside them. That maybe I belonged here too, not just in Xavier's bed, but in this web of connections that had formed around him.

Xavier closed the door behind us and leaned against it. "So, you want to have the awkward morning-after talk now or later?"

I sat on the edge of his bed, focusing on tying my shoes to avoid his penetrating gaze. "Actually, I'm curious about the BDSM thing you mentioned." I surprised myself with my directness. "What are you into? How would that work between us?"

Xavier's eyebrows raised slightly. He pushed away from the door and came to sit beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight.

"I like being in control. Not just in the bedroom. That's probably obvious." His hand settled on my knee, warm and steady. "I'm not into submitting at all. But on the rare occasions I've had sex, I actually prefer to bottom."

I blinked in surprise. "Really? But I thought—"

"That tops are always dominant and bottoms are always submissive?" His lips curved in a knowing smile. "That's a common misconception. There's nothing more powerful than controlling someone who thinks they're in charge just because they're on top. There's power in making someone else do the work while you maintain all the control. It's like the ultimate hack, letting them think they're dominating you when really, you're the one pulling every string."

My mouth went dry at the thought.

“Aside from that, I have particular interests. Things that connect to what I am at my core." He studied my face, watching my reaction carefully. “Fire play. Wax play. Anything that uses heat and temperature to create sensations that dance right on that perfect edge between pleasure and pain."

I blinked in surprise. "You mean actually using fire? Isn't that dangerous?"

"That's why it has to be done with absolute precision and control." His eyes lit up with a familiar intensity I'd seen when he talked about his hunts. "There's an art to it. Understanding exactly how hot a flame burns, how quickly wax cools on skin, how to create sensations that overwhelm without causing actual harm."

I imagined Xavier with a lighter in hand, carefully painting my skin with flame, watching with that calculated focus as wax dripped and cooled on my body. The vision sent a shudder through me.

"It's intimate in a way most people don't understand," he continued, voice low and almost reverent. "Trusting someone with fire, with heat... it's the ultimate surrender. And controlling it, keeping someone safe while they experience that intensity... It's the purest expression of what I am."

"And that's what you'd want with me?"

"If you were open to it." His thumbs traced small circles on my knee. "We'd start very slowly. Build trust. Learn your limits. I'd never hurt you beyond what brings pleasure. Finding that perfect balance is the whole point."

"Okay.” I swallowed. “Let’s say I’m open to it. Where does that lead us?"

"Wherever we want it to." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "That's the beauty of it. We make our own rules."

His proximity made it hard to think straight. "Would you want... actual sex with me? Eventually?"

Xavier pulled back just enough to study my face. "I've had sex before," he said matter-of-factly. "But never because I was attracted to someone. It was always about power or control, or because they specifically asked for it. With you, it's different. I'm actually... interested. Not just in the power dynamics, but in you. In your pleasure." He looked almost surprised by his own admission. "I can't promise how it'll play out, but you're already rewiring my understanding of myself. Might as well see how far that goes."

"I'd like that," I said quietly.

His hand squeezed my thigh once before he stood. "Good. But first, shopping. Misha's been waiting, and if we make him wait any longer, he'll pick out nothing but pastel sweaters for you just to spite me."