Page 16

Fuck me, being chained to a rock sucked ass.

That was my first coherent thought as I struggled against restraints that weren't rope or metal, but something alive.

They were goddamn living shackles that tightened like pythons whenever I fought them, squeezing until my bones creaked.

Because regular chains would be too fucking pedestrian for my premium nightmare package.

The sky above wasn't a sky at all, just an endless void with pinpricks of flame that made me think of cigarette burns in black velvet. Classy decor, really top-tier hellscape design.

I'd had this dream before. The greatest hits of Luka's Fucked-Up Psyche, volume twelve.

Here came the eagle, right on schedule. Not your standard National Geographic bird, but some Lovecraftian nightmare with feathers like oil slicks and a beak designed by the same sadistic fuck who created medieval torture devices.

Its eyes, though… Those were the worst part.

Cold, intelligent, and completely devoid of anything resembling mercy or doubt. Just absolute fucking certainty .

"Well, aren't you a pretty bird," I said, or tried to say. My voice came out as a wet gurgle, like I was already drowning in my own blood. Fan-fucking-tastic.

The eagle landed on my chest with the approximate weight of a Toyota Corolla. Its talons punctured skin like it had memorized an anatomical chart of exactly where to cause maximum pain without hitting anything immediately fatal. Overachiever.

When it started cutting into me, I realized I'd been an idiot to think I remembered what pain felt like.

This wasn't pain. This was existence becoming agony, every cell in my body simultaneously screaming in a language made of pure suffering.

My nerves ignited, skin peeling back in wet ribbons while my blood hissed against the creature's molten beak.

I felt its beak inside me, sorting through internal organs like it was shopping at a particularly wet farmer's market. When it found my liver, I knew. Not because I could see—I couldn't lift my head—but because it felt like someone had found my soul and decided to floss with it.

The eagle pulled my liver out, still attached to whatever the fuck keeps livers attached to people.

It didn't just yank it out like pulling a prize from a cereal box.

No, it took its sweet time, making sure I felt every severed connection, every snapped vessel.

The organ pulsed in its beak, still alive, still mine, even as it was being removed from where organs are generally supposed to remain.

And then it started eating. Not quickly, not mercifully, but with the pace of someone savoring an expensive meal they've been looking forward to all day.

Each bite sent fresh waves of agony through me.

I tried to scream but all that came out was blood, running down my chin and neck in warm rivulets.

"Pathetic. "

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

I managed to turn my head enough to see him approaching.

Prometheus. Not the toga-wearing mythological figure from storybooks, but something much worse—a man in an impeccable suit that made my entire wardrobe look like it came from a dumpster behind Goodwill.

But his face... Jesus fucking Christ, his face was made of actual fire, features constantly shifting and reforming in dancing flames, eyes like white-hot coals that burned holes right through whatever they looked at.

"This the part where you monologue?" I managed to rasp, blood bubbling between my lips. Even in a nightmare, I couldn't shut my fucking mouth.

The flame-face tilted, almost curious. "You think this is punishment? It isn't. It's preparation."

The eagle finished its snack, my liver now completely consumed. I felt hollow, emptied out in the most literal way possible. But then came the worst part. I could feel my liver growing back. Cells multiplying, tissue regenerating, all so it could happen again. The ultimate cosmic "fuck you."

"Preparation for what?" I asked, genuinely curious despite the whole tortured-for-eternity situation.

"For what comes next," Flame-Face said, like that was any kind of useful answer.

The eagle turned its attention back to my newly regrown liver, beak gleaming with my blood.

"Your loyalties have shifted," Prometheus said, flames dancing across his features. "The rules of the game are changing. Evolution always comes with... sacrifice. "

The eagle tore into me again, and this time the pain was somehow worse, like my nerves had regenerated with extra sensitivity just for shits and giggles.

"That's not how this works," I ground out through clenched teeth slick with blood. "I'm not a hero. I'm just the asshole who—"

"Who turned on his masters," Prometheus finished, flames rippling higher across his face. "Who broke the contract."

There was something in his fiery voice I didn't expect. Not anger, not disappointment. Something almost like... respect?

The eagle ripped out another chunk of liver, and my vision started darkening at edges. But through the haze of pain, I caught a glimpse of weariness in those flame features.

"Fuck this," I snarled through blood-soaked teeth.

Something snapped inside me, and then chains snapped too, metal links shattering like glass.

I lunged at Flame-Face with strength that shouldn't have been possible, not with my guts hanging out.

The eagle screeched as I shoved it aside, hands reaching for Prometheus's burning face.

I wanted to extinguish those flames, tear that smug expression apart with my bare hands.

My fingers plunged into living fire, flesh sizzling on contact. I didn't care. Pain was nothing new. I'd been living with it for twenty-six years.

"LUKA! STOP! PLEASE STOP!"

The voice cut through everything. It wasn't Prometheus, or the eagle, but Vincent. Terrified, desperate Vincent.

Reality crashed back like a wrecking ball to the face. I wasn't chained to a rock. There was no eagle, no flame-faced Prometheus.

I was straddling Vincent in bed, hands wrapped around his throat, fingers pressing into his flesh hard enough to leave marks.

His skin burned hot under my palms, not searing like Prometheus's flames, but alive, vulnerable, human.

His pulse hammered against my thumbs, each beat a desperate plea I almost silenced forever.

Blood trickled from a small scratch where my thumbnail had broken skin.

His eyes were wide with terror, body rigid beneath me, hands gripping my wrists, trying to pull me off.

"Luka, it's me," he whispered, voice strained against the pressure of my hands. "It's Vincent. You're safe. We're in the Acropolis."

Horror turned my blood to ice. I jerked hands away, realization of what I'd nearly done hitting with sickening clarity.

"Fuck. FUCK." I scrambled backwards so violently I fell off the bed, hitting the floor hard. "Jesus Christ, Vince."

I pressed against the wall, as far from him as possible, shaking uncontrollably. Sweat beaded on my forehead while my heart thundered violently enough to crack ribs.

Vincent sat up slowly, one hand going to his throat. In the dim light filtering through the blinds, red marks formed where my fingers had been. His hand trembled as he touched the tender skin. His composed expression faltered.

My stomach lurched.

"I'm okay," he said, voice catching before he steadied it. "It's just bruising. You stopped yourself."

I couldn't speak, couldn't move, could barely breathe through the constriction in my chest. I'd almost killed him. The one person I wanted to protect, and I'd nearly strangled him in my sleep.

Vincent moved cautiously to turn on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room with a soft golden light. In the gentle glow, the marks were clearer. They weren't as bad as I'd feared, but the sight of my handprints on his skin made me feel like the monster I was.

I couldn't stay here. Couldn't look at what I'd done. Couldn't face him .

"I can't—" My voice cracked. I bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and locking it with trembling hands.

I slid down to cold marble floor, my back against the door, knees pulled to my chest. My throat burned with the effort of holding back something dangerously close to tears.

Professional killers don't cry. Not over nightmares, not over almost murdering someone, not ever.

That had been beaten out of me long ago.

But fuck if this didn't feel like crying anyway.

I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes until I saw stars, willing the pressure behind them to subside. My chest felt like it was being crushed, like the eagle was back, perched on my sternum.

"Luka?" Vincent's voice came through the door, gentle and cautious. "Are you alright?"

My laugh escaped, bitter and raw. "Am I alright? Jesus Christ, Vince, I just tried to strangle you in your sleep."

"You were having a nightmare. You didn't know what you were doing."

"That's supposed to make it better?" I pressed my forehead against my knees. "The fact that I'm so fucked up I attack people in my sleep?"

Silence on the other side of the door. Then, softly: "Can I come in?"

"No. Just... go back to bed. Please. I need to be alone."

"I'd rather you weren’t," Vincent replied, voice still steady. "Being alone isn't always the best response to trauma."

"This isn't about my trauma," I snapped, anger easier to grasp than whatever else was threatening to drown me. "This is about me being a fucking danger to you."

I could almost hear him thinking on the other side of the door, weighing his words carefully.

"I'm going to go make some tea," he said finally. "When you're ready, I'll be in the living room. No pressure. "