Page 15

"That's quite an admission from a therapist," he said, voice husky.

"I never claimed to be good at taking my own advice."

I settled Luka on the couch and placed a cool cloth on his forehead before investigating the kitchen.

While rummaging through the surprisingly well-stocked refrigerator, I tried to make sense of our situation.

Maybe someone from my client list was connected to this Pantheon. The thought sent a chill through me.

"Hungry?" I asked, turning to find Luka watching me through half-lidded eyes.

"Starving."

I pulled several vegetables from the refrigerator, and Luka's expression shifted to pure horror.

"Oh God, you're one of those people," he groaned, eyeing the broccoli in my hand like it was radioactive. "The ones who think food should be green."

"It's called nutrition," I replied, deliberately slicing the broccoli into tiny pieces. "And yes, I'm one of those radical extremists who believes in the food pyramid. "

“Vegetables are what prey eats,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “Except for potatoes. Those get a pass because they become fries.”

After a simple meal that Luka picked at like a suspicious child, I helped him back to the couch.

His fever had climbed higher, skin flushed with alarming heat.

He leaned against me, uncharacteristically pliant, his weight shifting against my side as we navigated through the apartment.

The solid press of his fevered body against mine sent conflicting signals racing through my nervous system.

I tried to ignore them as I dug through the first aid kit again in search of something to take down his fever.

Luka swallowed the pills with only mild annoyance and stretched out on the couch for a nap.

Once he was settled, I escaped to the bathroom for a desperately needed shower. When I returned to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, I found it empty. I slipped into borrowed clothes and slid between cool sheets, muscles aching from the day's impossible tension.

I'd just begun drifting into that hazy pre-sleep state when the door creaked open.

My eyes snapped open to see Luka framed in the doorway, steam curling around him from his own shower.

A towel hung dangerously low on his hips, water droplets tracing slow paths down the defined muscles of his abdomen.

The feverish flush had receded slightly. At least the pills were working.

Before I could form a coherent thought, he dropped the towel completely.

My brain short-circuited. For one humiliating moment, I couldn't look away. He was all lean muscle and dangerous grace, scars mapping a violent history across his skin. And there, impossible to ignore, was a ladder of metal bars decorating the underside of his very impressive cock.

"My eyes are up here, Vince," Luka purred. "Though I don't mind if you want to take notes for future reference. "

Heat rushed to my face with such intensity I could feel my pulse throbbing in my temples. I dragged my gaze upward with tremendous effort, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.

"Interesting," I said, deliberately clinical as I let my gaze drop once more, using professional distance as armor. "I’ve never seen that before. Did you do it yourself?"

His eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise flickering across his face before his usual smirk returned. "Professional. I may be reckless, but I draw the line at DIY genital modification."

"Why?" I asked without meaning to. “I mean… that seems pretty…” Impressive , my brain supplied. Then hot . Then I finally found the word I wanted. “Extreme.”

"You're the shrink," he replied, making no move to cover himself. "You tell me."

"Historically, such modifications suggest a desire to enhance a partner's pleasure at the cost of one's own comfort," I said, retreating into academic analysis because the alternative was admitting how my body was responding. "An external manifestation of internal priorities."

He laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Or maybe I just like how it feels. Not everything needs psychoanalysis, doc."

"Why are you naked?" I asked finally, fighting to keep my voice steady.

"Because that's how I sleep," he replied with an elegant shrug that rippled through his muscles. "Why? How do you sleep?"

"In clothes! With privacy! In my own bed!" My voice rose with each word. "Where exactly do you think you're sleeping tonight?"

His brow furrowed. "This is the only bed. "

"What?" I glanced around frantically, as if a second bed might materialize from the walls.

"One bedroom, one bed." He gestured to the king-sized mattress I was currently occupying. "Didn't think it needed clarification."

I stared in disbelief, suddenly acutely aware of my vulnerability. "You're not sleeping here. Not with me. Not like... that." I gestured vaguely toward his nakedness.

"Where else am I supposed to sleep? The couch? After getting stabbed, shot at, and breaking a fever to save your life?" He gestured to his bruised body, which only drew attention to parts I was desperately trying to ignore. "Besides, it's king-sized. We won't even touch."

Guilt twisted inside me. He had saved my life. Had killed his mentor for me. Those bruises darkening across his torso were the price he'd paid for my continued existence.

"I need to stay close anyway," he added, voice dropping its playfulness. "Sanctuary rules only protect us from direct contract completion. There are still... gray areas that could be exploited."

"I thought you said we were safe here?" I asked, clinging to any topic that didn't involve his continued nakedness.

"Mostly safe," he clarified. "But in my line of work, paranoia is a survival skill." His eyes gleamed with sudden mischief. "Plus, there might be evil spiders."

"Evil spiders?" Despite everything, a smile tugged at my lips.

"Absolutely. Deadliest kind." His face remained completely straight. "They only target therapists with perfect bubble butts. Very specific predatory pattern. Scientific fact."

A startled laugh escaped me. "That's ridiculous."

"I'd never joke about arachnid threats, doc." He pressed a hand to his heart in mock solemnity. "Your safety is my primary concern. "

"Fine," I conceded, the day's exhaustion finally winning out against my better judgment. "But clothes stay on. Non-negotiable."

"You drive a hard bargain," he sighed, making a show of reluctantly retrieving a pair of black boxer briefs from a drawer. He slid them on slowly, the fabric clinging to his hips in a way that was hardly more modest than complete nakedness. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," I replied dryly, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumped as he approached the bed. Ridiculous. I was a grown man, a professional with multiple degrees. I shouldn't be reacting like a teenager with his first crush.

He slid between the sheets, keeping to his side of the mattress, but still close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. The king-sized bed suddenly felt impossibly small, the distance between us charged with an invisible current.

I lay rigid, every muscle tensed, hyperaware of his presence. The scent of soap and something uniquely him filled my senses, making my heart race traitorously.

"Relax, Vince," he murmured, voice rougher in the darkness. "I don't bite… unless you’re into that?"

"Don't flatter yourself," I replied, turning away from him before he could see the effect his words had on me. "And stay on your side. I don't care how many people you've killed, I'll push you onto the floor if you cross the middle."

"So demanding," he said, amusement evident in his voice. "I like that in a man. Especially one who thinks he can give me orders."

"Just go to sleep," I said, attempting to sound stern but landing somewhere closer to flustered.

"Your concern is touching," he replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice even without seeing it .

I lay silent, acutely aware of his breathing gradually slowing behind me. My mind raced despite bone-deep exhaustion. What bizarre twist of fate had led me here?

And the worst part? I couldn't deny the pull I felt toward him.

"This is insanity," I whispered to myself, words barely disturbing the darkness.

"What is?" came his immediate reply, proving he wasn't as close to sleep as I'd thought.

I froze, mortified at being caught in vulnerable self-reflection. "Nothing. Go to sleep."

"Is it the ladder piercing?" he asked, voice closer than I expected. "Because that tends to provoke strong reactions. Usually positive ones, though."

"God, you're insufferable," I muttered, but without any real heat. "Not everything is about your... modifications."

"Then what's insane?" he persisted, the mattress shifting as he turned toward me. "This situation? Being hunted? Or the fact that you're attracted to me despite knowing what I am?"

My breath caught, heart slamming against my ribs. The direct acknowledgment of what had been simmering between us since our first meeting in my office knocked the air from my lungs.

"That's ridiculous," I said, the denial automatic but unconvincing even to me.

"Is it?" His voice dropped lower, rough velvet in the darkness. “Then why do you keep looking at me like you want me to eat you up?”

I swallowed hard. "I’m not afraid of you."

"Maybe you should be," he said softly.

I turned my head to look at him, dragging my eyes slowly down and then back up his body. “I nearly defeated you with broccoli a few hours ago. You don’t scare me, Luka.” I settled in, staring at the ceiling. “This is just Stockholm Syndrome."

"It's not Stockholm Syndrome if I was into you before I kidnapped you," he replied. "And it's not trauma bonding if the attraction was there during our first session, before any trauma occurred."

I turned to face him then, unable to maintain the pretense of disinterest. In the dim light, his eyes gleamed with feverish intensity, but his gaze was clear and direct.

"You're attracted to dangerous men," he said, not a question but a statement of fact. "It's written all over you. The way you react when I get close. The way you pushed back during our session instead of being intimidated. The way you looked at me when I pinned you to your floor."

"That's a professional observation," I replied, trying to regain control of the conversation. "You forget I'm trained to analyze behavioral patterns."

"And yet you don't deny it." His voice had a rough edge that sent heat pooling low in my abdomen. "I saw your reaction when I had you pinned. Felt it, actually."

My face burned at the memory of my embarrassing physical response when he'd straddled me in my apartment. "Fight-or-flight response can trigger various physiological reactions. Basic biology."

"Keep hiding behind psychological terms if it makes you feel better. But we both know what's happening here."

"And what exactly is that?"

"Something inevitable." The mattress dipped as he shifted closer, not touching me but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Something that started the moment I walked into your office. "

I should have moved away. Should have shut down this dangerous line of conversation. Instead, I found myself suspended in the moment, breath caught in my lungs.

"You're delirious," I managed finally. "Your fever's talking."

"Maybe," he conceded, retreating to his side of the bed. "But fever just lowers inhibitions, doc. It doesn't create desires that weren't already there."

I turned away again, heart hammering against my ribs. "Go to sleep, Luka."

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I have a strict policy against getting emotionally involved with targets. Look how well that turned out."

"Why did you do it?" I asked. "You never answered. Why risk everything for someone you barely know?"

Silence stretched so long I thought he might have fallen asleep. Then, so quietly I barely heard it: "Because you saw me. Not the asset. Not the weapon. Me."

Something twisted in my chest, sharp and sweet and painful all at once. I wanted to respond, but what could I possibly say to that?

"Go to sleep, doc," he said, voice rough with emotion or fever or both. "Tomorrow will be complicated enough without sleep deprivation."

I closed my eyes, knowing he was right, but certain sleep would elude me. Tomorrow loomed with unanswered questions. Who wanted me dead? Why was I worth upending Luka's entire existence? And what was this connection between us that defied all rational explanation?

As consciousness began slipping away, one last thought surfaced: in all my years of therapy, both receiving and providing, I'd never encountered anything that explained what was happening between us. Perhaps some things existed beyond psychological categorization, beyond clinical understanding.

Maybe some connections simply were, defying explanation like gravity or magnetism.

And perhaps that was the most terrifying thought of all.