Page 11

Awkward silence fell. Now that the immediate danger had passed, the adrenaline had worn off and my face had erupted into a symphony of pain.

Broken cartilage grated inside my nose with each breath, and warm blood trickled from my reopened cheekbone.

The adrenaline crash hit like a sledgehammer, muscles screaming from fighting Hector and the high-speed escape.

But I swallowed the pain down, forced it into a box.

I couldn't show weakness, not when I needed us both alive.

For the first time since I'd killed Hector, the enormity of what I'd done fully crashed into me.

Twenty-six years of programming, of conditioning, of service to The Pantheon.

All of it obliterated in one moment of defiance.

All for a therapist I barely knew. And for what?

Because he'd looked at me and seen something worth saving?

The magnitude of my betrayal coated my tongue with ash, sick dread pooling in my stomach.

"Your nose is broken," he said abruptly. "It needs to be set."

I shrugged. "It's fine. Had worse."

"It'll heal crooked if not set properly." His voice steadied as he shifted into doctor mode, apparently more comfortable assessing injuries than processing his own kidnapping. "Those cuts need cleaning. You could get an infection."

"Are you always this concerned about people who kidnap you?"

"I haven't been kidnapped enough to establish a pattern." A flash of that dry wit from our therapy session emerged, his chin lifting slightly. "Though I will say, as kidnappings go, this one has an unusually attractive kidnapper. Statistically speaking. "

For a moment, the world felt almost normal. Just two guys bantering on a drive. Not a killer and his would-be target fleeing other killers.

"Once we're somewhere safe, you can play doctor all you want," I said, waggling my eyebrows suggestively. "But right now, focus on not getting killed."

"Your inappropriate humor is a defense mechanism. Deflection through sexualization. Common in trauma responses." Then he caught himself psychoanalyzing me and looked away. "Sorry. Professional habit."

"Is that what this is? Me deflecting?" I asked, curious despite myself. "Not just me enjoying making you blush?"

"It can be both," he replied automatically. "Most psychological phenomena have multiple functions."

"Is that right?" My voice dropped lower, rougher. "And what psychological phenomena would explain why your pupils dilate when I get closer to you? Or why your breathing changes when I touch you?"

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes darting away. "Fear response. Entirely normal."

"Bullshit." The word came out softer than I intended. "You weren't afraid in your office yesterday. And you're not just afraid now."

His jaw tightened. "I'm half-naked in a car with an armed assassin who broke into my apartment and kidnapped me. What exactly should I be feeling?"

I shrugged and he let out a sigh.

“Do you think they’re still following us?”

I shook my head. "Not anymore. But they'll find us again. These people are persistent. And resourceful."

"Who are 'these people'?"

"Less you know right now, the better. Trust me. "

"Trust you?" he echoed incredulously. "You broke into my apartment. You were hired to kill me. Why would I possibly trust you?" His therapist training seemed to kick in, giving him a framework to process this madness. "This could still be an elaborate delusion. Folie à deux. Shared psychosis."

"Because I'm currently your only option," I replied, downshifting as we approached a red light. "And because if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."

He fell silent, clinical mind clearly assessing the evidence: the gunshots, the pursuers, my injuries. I watched his throat work as he swallowed hard, the pulse point at his neck hammering visibly. His fingers traced a pattern on his thigh, a self-soothing gesture he probably wasn't aware of.

"Those men had real guns," he murmured, almost to himself, fingers stopping their movement. "This isn't a delusion."

"No, it's not," I confirmed softly. "And the people coming after us won't stop until we're both dead. What I did—" I cut myself off, the weight of my actions suddenly crushing. "I killed one of them. My handler. My..." I paused, searching for the right word. "My creator."

Vincent's head snapped toward me, eyes widening. "You killed... Why would you—"

"He was going to kill you. Had you in his scope."

Silence stretched between us, thick with implications.

"Fine," he finally conceded, crossing his arms over his bare chest in a gesture that was somehow both defensive and imperious. "I'll trust you. For now. But I want answers eventually. All of them."

"You'll get them," I promised. "Just not all at once."

He nodded, exhaustion setting in as adrenaline faded. The golden sunlight streaming through the windshield illuminated the purple smudges beneath his eyes, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow I'd never noticed before, the stubble darkening his jaw.

"My plants," he said suddenly. "They'll die if no one waters them."

I glanced over, expression softening despite myself. "I'll make sure someone takes care of your plants, Vince." I reached over and briefly squeezed his knee before returning to the gearshift. "I promise. Been watching those little guys for weeks. Pretty invested in their soap opera myself."

"Soap opera?"

"Oh yeah," I said, unable to contain my enthusiasm. "That orchid? Total drama queen. Riveting stuff."

"You've been watching me water my plants?" His voice held a mix of outrage and something else—a hint of that same breathless quality I'd heard when I'd pinned him to his floor. "How long have you been... observing me?"

"Long enough to know you read vampire erotica," I admitted, waggling my eyebrows. "Saucy stuff, doc."

His cheeks flushed crimson, but rather than shrinking in embarrassment, he straightened his spine.

His nostrils flared with genuine anger. "You watched me in my private moments?

In my home?" Each word came out clipped, precise.

The professional calm he'd been maintaining cracked, revealing something raw underneath.

"That's a violation I can't even begin to process right now. "

"I was supposed to kill you," I reminded him softly. "Surveillance is standard protocol."

He stared at me, jaw working as he processed this. "My literary choices are none of your business," he finally said, voice steadier but tight with controlled emotion. "And for the record, it's paranormal romance, not vampire erotica. "

“Your last read was Ravished by the Vampire Lord . That title doesn’t exactly scream literary fiction.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. At least he wasn't cowering or threatening police anymore. Dr. Matthews was regaining his composure, finding his footing even in this chaos.

Something shifted between us. Tentative connection began forming where there should've been only fear and hostility. Born of necessity perhaps, but undeniable. Another crack in my programming.

The realization hit me like a punch to the sternum: I wasn't just a failed asset anymore.

I was a target. The same organization that had molded me, trained me, owned me for twenty-six years would now hunt me with the same ruthless efficiency they'd instilled in me.

The penalty for asset cascade failure wasn't retirement. It was elimination.

I stole glances at Vincent as he gazed out the window, profile illuminated by the morning sun, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His hands had stopped shaking. The therapist in him was processing, adapting, finding footing in the chaos.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked, surprised by my own curiosity.

He hesitated. "I'm trying to understand why I'm not more afraid of you."

The honesty caught me off guard. "Maybe your self-preservation instinct is broken. Mine certainly is." I tapped the steering wheel, considering. "I just threw away my entire life for you. Pretty sure that makes me the crazy one here."

"Why did you?" His voice was so quiet I almost missed it. "Why didn't you just... do your job?"

The question hung between us, sharp and dangerous. I had no answer that made sense, even to myself .

"Oh, by the way," I said casually, as if mentioning forgotten milk. "My name isn't Julian. It's Luka."

"Of course it is," he sighed. "Any other fundamental truths you'd like to share? Are you actually from Mars? Is the car we're in stolen? Are you a secret K-pop stan after all?"

"First of all," I gasped, "I hate K-pop. And no, the car isn't stolen. It's mine. Paid in full with blood money."

Vincent flinched at my phrasing but didn't look away. Progress.

"Luka," he repeated, testing my name on his tongue. It sounded different from his lips. Intimate. Real. "Is that your real name? Or just another lie?"

"It's my real name." I swallowed hard, something cracking open inside me. "The only thing about me that's still real."

He studied me silently, those perceptive eyes seeing too much. "I think there's more to you that's real than you realize, Luka."

The way he said my name undid me in ways a bullet never could.