Page 13 of Ruthless (The Ferrymen #1)

Vincent moved cautiously into the space, taking in the open-concept living area, small but well-appointed kitchen, and door presumably leading to the bedroom. "This is... not what I expected."

"What were you expecting? Bodies hanging from meat hooks? Torture devices? Sorry to disappoint."

"Something less... civilized," he admitted, running his fingers along a marble countertop. "This whole world of yours is disturbingly elegant."

"Death is a business like any other," I said, heading straight for the fridge. "And business is good." I grabbed two bottles of water, tossing one to Vincent. "Drink. Adrenaline dehydrates you."

He caught it without looking, his mind clearly racing. He took a long swig, throat working in a way that momentarily distracted me. When he lowered the bottle, his eyes had that focus I recognized from our therapy session.

"Why would someone want me dead? Someone with enough pull and resources to hire an assassin of your caliber."

I stared at him, suddenly struck by the absurdity of it all. Vincent Matthews, trauma therapist, standing in an assassin's sanctuary, strategizing his survival in the same calm tone he probably used to discuss treatment plans.

"You're taking this surprisingly well," I observed.

"I work with cult survivors," he replied, straightening his shoulders. "I'm familiar with parallel societies, hidden hierarchies, and charismatic leaders who inspire blind loyalty. Your Prometheus sounds like a typical cult leader, just with better resources."

The comparison sent an electric jolt down my spine. "The Pantheon isn't a cult."

"Isn't it?" Vincent set down his water bottle carefully. "You were isolated from normal society. Taught to kill without question. Given special tokens as rewards for loyalty. These are classic grooming techniques. Textbook conditioning."

The word "grooming" hit me like a punch to the solar plexus, dredging up memories I'd spent years burying. Milan. The suite at the Bulgari Hotel. Prometheus teaching me how to taste champagne properly before... before...

"I see the information control tactics too," Vincent continued.

"The special language. 'Assets,' 'ferrymen,' 'pennies.

' Creates an insider identity. The physical isolation in underground facilities.

The manufactured scarcity of those copper pennies to ensure compliance.

The ritualistic exchanges. Even the Greek mythology themes are deliberate, casting Prometheus as a godlike figure bringing enlightenment.

I've deprogrammed people from organizations with identical structures. "

"Fuck you," I snapped, heat rising under my skin. My pulse roared in my ears as sweat beaded cold along my spine. The room tilted slightly, the lights suddenly too bright, too harsh. I tasted champagne at the back of my throat, phantom hands on my skin. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" He stepped closer. "Your hands trembled when you mentioned his name. Your pupils dilated. Your breathing changed. Classic trauma response to an abuser."

I slammed him against the wall before I realized I'd moved, forearm pressed against his throat, bodies flush from chest to thigh. "Stop. Analyzing. Me."

Vincent didn't struggle. Didn't even have the decency to look afraid.

His pulse hammered against my arm, but his eyes remained steady on mine.

For a split second, his body relaxed against mine, almost yielding, before he caught himself.

"Is this how Prometheus taught you to handle challenges to your worldview? With violence?"

I jerked back as if burned, releasing him instantly. "Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"It's okay," he said softly, rubbing his throat. "I pushed intentionally. Needed to test a theory."

"What theory?"

"That your conditioning has cracks in it. Deep ones." Vincent straightened from the wall, his therapist mask sliding back into place. "Whatever Prometheus did to create you, it's breaking down. That's why you couldn't kill me, isn't it? The programming failed."

My knees suddenly went weak. I sank onto a nearby chair, the truth of his words settling cold and heavy in my stomach. "You don't understand what you're messing with."

"Then help me understand," he said, kneeling before me so our eyes were level.

I stared at him, at this man who'd somehow managed to undo decades of conditioning in three weeks of surveillance and one therapy session. Who'd seen through the layers of protective sarcasm to the broken thing underneath.

A sudden memory flashed. Prometheus in Milan, champagne glasses clinking. His voice, silky and persuasive: "You wanted this, Luka. Your body doesn't lie."

My hands clenched involuntarily, nails digging crescents into my palms. My mouth flooded with saliva, body preparing to vomit even as my mind built walls around the memory.

For a moment, I wasn't in the Acropolis anymore, but back in that hotel room, sheets tangled around my legs, unable to coordinate my limbs, unable to say no.

"Your nose needs setting," Vincent said, changing topics so abruptly I blinked. "Let me fix it."

Before I could respond, his hands were on my face, touch precise yet somehow intimate. He examined the break, fingers gentle against swollen tissue.

"This will hurt," he warned, thumbs positioning on either side of my nose.

"I've had worse," I started to say, but he moved before I finished, snapping cartilage back into place with a practiced motion.

Pain exploded white-hot behind my eyes, drawing a strangled curse from my lips. When my vision cleared, Vincent was still there, hands cupping my face, eyes searching mine.

"Better?" he asked, thumbs brushing along my cheekbones in a gesture that didn't seem entirely medical.

Our faces were inches apart, his breath warm against my lips. Something electric crackled between us, dangerous and magnetic. I could sense his pulse racing beneath my fingers, which had somehow found their way to his wrists .

Vincent's gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there before he dragged it back up. The professional mask slipped for a moment, revealing something hungry and primal lurking beneath.

"You've done that before," I said roughly.

"Set broken noses? Yes." A hint of a smile played at his lips. "In grad school, I dated a semi-pro boxer. Saw plenty of facial trauma."

"Full of surprises, aren't you, Dr. Matthews?"

"You have no idea," he murmured.

The moment stretched, taut with possibility. All I had to do was lean forward an inch...

My phone buzzed violently in my pocket, shattering the moment. Vincent pulled back as I fished out the device.

Unknown number. I answered cautiously. "Yeah?"

"Well, if it isn't my favorite dead man walking," Lo's familiar voice trilled through the speaker. "Having fun playing house with Dr. Hottie?"

"Lo," I breathed, relief flooding through me. "You got my things?"

"Of course I did. Your collection is perfectly safe with me," he replied with his typical dramatic flair.

"Meanwhile, your little rooftop drama caused quite the stir.

The Pantheon's in complete meltdown. They've called in every marker from Miami to Montreal.

Word is they're offering double bounty for your heads. "

My blood turned to ice. "How bad?"

"Bad enough I heard Rhadamanthys is flying in."

I winced. "So I heard."

"Word is Prometheus is taking it personally," Lo said

"Listen, Lo. I need you to dig up everything you can on Vincent Matthews. Professional history, personal connections, anything that might explain why someone wanted him dead. "

"Already on it, sweetheart. The mystery therapist has me intrigued." Lo paused, then added, "But Luka... be careful. This feels bigger than just a contract gone wrong."

"Keep digging," I said. "And Lo? Thanks. I owe you."

"Damn right you do. Risking my precious beauty sleep for your drama." His voice softened fractionally. "Stay alive, Luka. I'd hate to have to break in a new roommate."

The call ended, leaving me staring at the blank screen.

"Bad news?" Vincent asked quietly.

I looked up, meeting his eyes. "The worst. The Pantheon isn't just trying to kill us now. They've called in every favor, doubled the bounty. This isn't just about a failed contract anymore."

Vincent sank onto the couch, the weight of our situation finally seeming to hit him. "I can't believe this is happening. Yesterday, my biggest concern was whether my fern was getting enough light."

"Yesterday, I was planning how to kill you," I reminded him, dropping onto the couch beside him. "Today, I'm planning how to keep you alive. Funny how quickly things change."

He turned to face me, eyes searching mine. "Why didn't you do it? You had three weeks. Multiple opportunities. Why hesitate?"

The question hung between us, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex. I'd been asking myself the same thing since I first received the contract.

"I don't know," I admitted finally. "At first, I told myself I was being thorough.

Then that I was building a comprehensive profile.

But the truth is... You were the first target who seemed like an actual person to me.

Not just a photograph and a dossier. Watching you care for your plants, help that homeless woman, talk down to your patients. .. it changed something."

Vincent's expression softened. "In therapist terms, we'd call that empathy development. Recognizing another person's humanity conflicts with your conditioned objectification of targets."

"There he goes with the psychology bullshit again," I muttered, but without heat.

A small smile played at his lips. "Sorry. Professional hazard."

Silence settled between us, almost comfortable despite our dire circumstances. Outside our windows, the Acropolis continued its eternal business. Killers, fixers, and information brokers moved through marble corridors while conducting their deadly commerce.

Vincent examined my bloodied face critically. "We need to properly clean those cuts. And your nose needs ice before it swells even more."

"You planning to play doctor now?" I smirked, but winced as the movement pulled at my split lip.

"Actually, yes." He stood, straightening with a newfound purpose that seemed to override his exhaustion. "There must be a first aid kit somewhere in this place. Bathroom, probably."

I gestured toward a door off the main living area. "Through there. Acropolis suites come fully stocked. Occupational hazards and all that."

Vincent nodded, suddenly all business. "Don't move. Those cuts need proper cleaning if you don't want infection."

"Bossy," I muttered, but the corner of my mouth twitched up despite myself. "I can take care of myself, you know. Been doing it for years."

His eyebrows rose slightly, mouth tightening at the corners. The therapist expression gave way to something more personal, more genuine. "Everyone needs help sometimes, Luka. Even assassins with broken noses."

Before I could craft a suitably deflective comeback, he turned and headed for the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the couch while blood dried on my face and confusion swirled in my gut.

Why was I letting him take charge? Why did I care what happened to him beyond keeping him alive long enough to figure out why someone wanted him dead? The familiar comfort of detachment slipped away, replaced by something I couldn't name and didn't want to examine.

I listened to him rummaging through cabinets in the bathroom, no doubt taking stock of his surroundings, processing the impossible reality he'd been thrust into.

Vincent Matthews, respected therapist with a carefully ordered life, now hunted by the most dangerous organization in the world, all because I couldn't pull a trigger.

The truth was, I didn't know why I'd saved him. I only knew that putting a bullet in Vincent Matthews seemed like the one line I couldn't cross, even after twenty-six years of crossing every other.

Charon would be sending someone with a registration scanner soon.

Vincent would be officially logged as my asset, given the token that would grant him passage through this underground world.

The thought of him wearing my mark, carrying proof of my protection, stirred something possessive in me that I immediately tried to suppress.

Focus, Luka. This isn't about attachment. It's about survival.

I leaned my head back against the couch, listening to Vincent's movements in the bathroom as I tried to figure out how we were going to survive what came next.