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“Not a father figure to me.” Fal’ran shoved the plate into place and leaned over to look into Patrick’s eyes. “That’s not what I’m looking for.” He raised an eyebrow and raked his gaze down Patrick’s body. “And it’s not what I found.”
Patrick flushed a deeper shade of red and focused on the bar between his hands. “I just don’t want you to think you have to hurt for me.”
“Do you think you have to hurt for me?” Fal’ran eased the barbell out of the rack and settled the weight in Patrick’s grip.
Patrick slowly lowered the weight and forced it back up with a whoosh of breath.
“Good,” Fal’ran murmured as he tracked the weight, ready to catch it the instant Patrick’s arms failed. The older man’s muscles bulged and Fal’ran’s belly tightened at the display of raw power and masculinity. He licked his lips and shifted his hips to find a little more room in his pants. “That’s really good. Two more.”
Patrick gritted his teeth as his pectorals shook on the last rep, but he heaved it up with a guttural grunt. Fal’ran quickly caught the bar and pulled it back onto the rack.
Patrick swung his arms by his side to shake the cramps loose. “I like the pain with you. I like the fight. It’s…” He dropped his arms down with a sigh and looked up at Fal’ran with that crooked, boyish grin. “Fun.”
Fal’ran laughed and crossed his forearms over the bar to lean over him. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.” After spending time with Sazahk and Patrick and even Bar’in, men with vocabularies a hundred times larger than his, Fal’ran knew a thousand words to describe brawling with Patrick behind closed doors. Exhilarating. Fulfilling. Pleasurable, meaningful, overwhelming. The list went on, but, hell, fun worked. “I think it’s fun, too.”
They gazed at each other, and Fal’ran marveled at himself. Since when did he share his feelings? Since when did he even have feelings for another person besides fury when they got in his way? Since when did he smile like a sap with his heart melting in his chest at the sight of affection in a human’s striking blue eyes?
“I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through.” Patrick gripped Fal’ran’s thigh. “You didn’t deserve it.”
Since Patrick Smith.
Fal’ran swallowed the lump in his throat. “It’s pretty common where I’m from.” He straightened up and patted the barbell. “What was your father like?”
Patrick rolled his shoulders and set his hands in position. “Didn’t have one.” He un-racked the weight and lowered it to his chest with a steady inhale.
Fal’ran snapped out of his surprise to track the weight, but Patrick handled the second set even better than the first. He lowered the weight with perfect form and lifted with strong, explosive exhales. A fucking machine.
“And honestly—” Patrick racked his weight without a nudge of help from Fal’ran when he finished his reps. “Seeing you and the Turner boys, I wonder if I dodged a bullet.”
“Yeah, fathers have their downsides.” Fal’ran didn’t know the details of Dom’s father or his relationship with him, but Dom’s face tightened up whenever he mentioned him. “Seems like you found all the same bullshit somewhere else, though.”
Patrick frowned at him for a second, before understanding and irritation dawned on his face. He sat up and swung his leg over the side of the bench. “I know where this is going.”
“Good.” Fal’ran followed Patrick to the free weights arrayed in front of a mirror. “Did you think we weren’t gonna talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about?” Patrick grabbed two dumbbells and dropped himself onto a bench chair, pressing his shoulder blades into the backrest. “The brass gave me an option. I brought the option to you. You all chose to stay with me.”
“And you hate that.” Fal’ran stood behind Patrick’s chair and glared at him in the mirror. “Why?”
“I don’t hate it.” Patrick heaved the weights up to his shoulders. “I think it was the wrong choice. And I’m mad at myself for giving you the option.”
“Why do you think it’s the wrong choice?” Fal’ran hovered his hands under Patrick’s elbows as he pressed the weights up. “Because the fucking general said so?”
“Yes, actually,” Patrick snarled at him in the mirror, his handsome face contorted by the strain of lifting the weights. “Because I’ve been all but ordered to stand down. Because I fucked up.” Patrick bared his teeth as his pace increased, losing his control, but none of his form. “Because I don’t have any business leading a team and I’m doing it, anyway.” Patrick roared as he pressed the weights up one more time, his shoulders shaking. When he dropped them back to his thighs, his head dropped with them.
Fal’ran resisted the urge to shake him and yell at him. He let him visibly wrestle with the thoughts in his head.
Patrick’s broad back expanded and collapsed as he heaved a sigh. “My country told me what it needs me to do and I’m just…” He shook his head. “Not.”
“Patrick,” Fal’ran scoffed, unable to keep the disbelieving irritation out of his voice. “Your country is full of shit—”
“Don’t.” Patrick’s head snapped up and his piercing blue eyes locked onto Fal’ran’s through the mirror.
“Don’t what?” Fal’ran bared his teeth.
“Don’t disparage the empire.”
“Why the hell do you care?” Fal’ran grabbed the back of Patrick’s chair and dug his nails into the fabric. “All the empire’s ever done for you is treat you like shit.”
