Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 13: Roast or spare?

Her eyes rolled, but her smirk held—sharp, alive. Then she leaned in, scarred elbows slamming the table—plates rattling. "This rehab crap—real or just your twisted game for fun?" Her voice cut, low and biting, amber eyes boring into him. "No one else here. Just me, caged. What's the angle?"

Kael stretched back, arms flexing—hazel eyes steady, grin lazy but keen. "Real's what you make it," he said, voice smooth, sidestepping. "You're the VIP—first spark, early bird."

She bared her teeth, unimpressed. "Cut the shit. Is this a program or a fucking trap? No patients, no rules—just us in this dump. Explain."

His grin sharpened, leaning closer—breath brushing her glare. "You think I'd waste my time on a scam? Got a vision—messy, yeah—but you're the proof." He jabbed a finger her way—plate, t-shirt, her. "Sitting here, scarfing eggs, not frying me. That's the game—works, doesn't it?"

"Fuck that," she snapped, voice a whipcrack, slamming her fist down—table shuddering. "Peel this collar off, and I'd turn this hole to cinders. No pause, no mercy." Her amber eyes blazed, wild and true, daring him to blink.

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Kael's brow arched, grin unfazed—leaning in, close enough to feel her heat. "And me, pyro? Roast or spare?"

She tilted her head, mock-thoughtful—then grinned, all teeth, wicked. "Depends—kneel, grovel, be my bitch, and I might let you breathe." Her voice purred, dark and sharp, a flame licking the edge.

He laughed—loud, raw—head shaking as he stood, grabbing their plates—ceramic clattering. "Hot offer, but I'm not that desperate," he shot back, hazel eyes dancing. "You're a riot, Rhea."

Her grin lingered—feral, alive—as they traded barbs, tension coiling then snapping loose. Then he straightened, voice dropping—firm, edged. "Lunch's done. Room time."

Rhea's groan was visceral, slumping back—chair creaking. "Fuck no. That cell's a tomb."

"Fuck yes," he countered, arms crossing—leaning against the counter, unyielding. "Got places to be."

She surged up, hands on hips—t-shirt swaying, amber eyes flashing. "It's a shithole—I'm not rotting there again."

He stepped closer, voice low, steel under the tease. "And I'm not leaving you loose when you just bragged about burning it all. Your mess, firebrand—own it." Her threat turned back, a blade he wielded smooth.

Her jaw locked—scarred hands flexing, caught, her own words a noose. She glared—amber fire dimming to a scowl—and stalked off, muttering, "Take too long, and your thing is a toast." The hall swallowed her—boots scuffing, borrowed and rough—and she spun in the gray room, arms crossed. "Back quick, asshole."

Kael loomed in the frame, grin softening—hazel eyes warm, steady. "Wouldn't ditch my best chaos too long," he said, voice a low hum, teasing but real. The door shut—lock clicking, a quiet snap—and she glared at it, scarred hand slamming the metal—cool, unyielding.

Inside, the gray walls pressed close, but his voice lingered—gravelly, sharp—mixing with the kitchen's heat still on her skin. She sank to the cot, t-shirt bunching—amber eyes flickering, soft just a breath. Alone again, but not the same—not with him out there, tethered by something she couldn't torch.

Kael stepped back, hand raking his hair—black, messy—breath sharp as he turned. The hall stretched silent, oil's tang fading, and he smirked. Maybe he should have made her clean the dishes as well.

He had work to do, and the first step was making sure she had clothes that weren't his.

With that, he walked off, still smirking to himself.

The massage parlor thrummed with a low, pulsing beat, a synthetic melody weaving through the air like a heartbeat engineered to unravel knots. Lavender hung heavy, curling around sandalwood and the sharp bite of eucalyptus, the scents pooling in the corners of a room washed in amber light. Sleek bamboo panels lined the walls, their edges catching the glow from recessed bulbs, and the floor gleamed dark, polished to a mirror sheen. Everything here whispered surrender, a crafted cocoon of calm Kael could almost taste on his tongue.

He slipped into the staff room, rolling his shoulders hard, bones popping as he shed the day's weight. The irony stung, bitter and familiar.

His ex-supervisor, Harris's voice echoed in his skull—gruff, unyielding, spitting truth from a hospital room years back when he was an amateur superhero: "You're no hero, Drayce. You belong in a spa, not a warzone." Kael had sneered then, ribs cracked and pride bruised, but now? Here he was, towel slung over his arm, proving the bastard right. Worse, he was good at it—damn good—and that gnawed at him more than the memory.

Not just good, though. Exceptional. His Empathic Resonance wasn't some parlor trick; it was a gift he wielded like a blade, honed to amplify every touch. Blood surged under his hands, muscles melted, endorphins spiked—clients didn't just relax, they unraveled, bodies humming tunes no regular masseur could play.

Word spread fast; his slots filled weeks out, half-hour sessions fought over like scraps. The paychecks followed, fat and steady, a lifeline for The Haven's leaky roof, Liss's "delivery" bribes, and Rhea's bottomless stomach—she ate like a furnace, small frame be damned.

"Mr. Drayce, Room 4's ready," chirped the receptionist, her voice cutting through his thoughts. She perched behind the desk, round glasses glinting, her gaze flicking over him with a hunger she didn't bother hiding. Kael nodded, short and sharp, snagging a fresh towel from the stack. His boots clicked soft on the hardwood as he crossed to the room, ducking inside where the light dimmed to a warm murk.

The client sprawled face-down on the padded table, a woman in her thirties, tension carved into her like a map. Her shoulders hunched rigid, back a lattice of strain—trapezius screaming, rhomboids knotted tight, lumbar region a clenched fist.

Kael's hazel eyes traced her frame, reading the story before he even touched her. Desk job, bad chair, worse stress. He poured oil into his palms, the bottle gurgling soft, and rubbed them together—warmth blooming, cedar mingling with the room's haze.

"Rough week?" he asked, voice low, a nudge not a pry, as his hands settled on her shoulders, fingers sinking into the meat of her traps.

Her sigh was a groan, muffled by the table. "Beyond rough. Absolute hell."

"Got a hunch about that," he murmured, and let his power loose. Empathic Resonance flared, a cool ripple through his veins, spilling from his palms into her skin. Her breath snagged—sharp, startled—then spilled out long and liquid as the tension cracked, muscles softening under his grip. He smirked, feeling it shift: disbelief, then awe, then a boneless slump as her body gave in, singing back to him in waves of release.

He worked her over, methodical but alive—thumbs digging into the rhomboids, palms sliding along her spine, fingers coaxing the lumbar knots free. Her sighs turned to soft moans, involuntary, and Kael's smirk grew, a quiet thrill in the control. By the time he wiped his hands and stepped back, she was a puddle, muttering a dazed "Thank you" as he slipped out. Four more clients followed—same dance, same unraveling—and the day's take piled up, enough to keep The Haven's lights on for another stretch.

He peeled off his work shirt in the staff room, swapping it for a worn jacket, the cash a satisfying weight in his pocket. Temporary fix, sure—once The Haven filled with more "residents," he would be out of free time and this gig would fade and he would have to find an alternative. But for now? It worked. He flexed his hands, oil's sheen still clinging, and grabbed his keys.

Next stop: shopping.