Page 18

Vincent left the door cracked open in a silent invitation I had no intention of accepting.

I padded silently to the threshold anyway. The dim light caught on Vincent's sleeping face, illuminating the bruises darkening on his throat. My stomach twisted.

Vincent stirred, something troubled crossing his features. A nightmare? He murmured something unintelligible, body tensing beneath the sheets. Before I realized what I was doing, I'd crossed to the edge of the bed, my hand hovering over his shoulder.

"Shhh," I whispered. "You're safe."

He relaxed at my voice, tension melting from his shoulders. His eyelids fluttered but didn't open. I allowed myself five seconds to memorize him this way—vulnerable, trusting despite everything he knew about me. Five seconds of weakness.

One. The way his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks.

Two. The slight part of his lips as he breathed.

Three. The stubble darkening his jaw that would feel like sandpaper against my skin.

Four. The steady pulse at his throat, directly beneath my fingerprints.

Five. The heat radiating from his body, a siren call to slip beneath those sheets.

Time's up.

I backed away, careful not to wake him. This wasn't about what I wanted. It was about keeping him alive, regardless of the hunger gnawing at my insides whenever I looked at him.

The couch cushions swallowed me like quicksand when I returned to the living room. My hands itched for motion, for purpose. Without thought, I reached beneath the couch where I'd stashed a small Ruger .380. Vincent didn't know about it. Better that way.

I ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber in one practiced motion, the metallic slide of the action grounding me in the familiar. Muscle memory took over as I began field stripping the weapon, my fingers finding each pin and spring mindlessly. This, at least, made sense. This, I understood.

"Excellent disassembly, Luka. Your fingers are talented. So precise."

My hand froze on the recoil spring. Prometheus's voice, so vivid it might have been whispered directly into my ear. My pulse pounded in my throat and sweat beaded at my temples despite the carefully regulated climate of our sanctuary.

"Fuck off," I muttered to the empty room, forcing my fingers to continue their mechanical dance. Trigger assembly out. Guide rod separated. Barrel extracted from the slide.

I arranged each piece in perfect alignment on the coffee table, creating a grid of deadly components that mirrored the mental compartmentalization I desperately needed. Ordered. Controlled. Contained.

"Your mind is a weapon I've been honing for decades."

The ghost of his hand settled on the back of my neck, the phantom pressure so real my muscles contracted in remembered response. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin, oxygen molecules scattering before I could pull them into my lungs.

I took a deep breath and held it, letting it out slowly. My heart rate began to slow, each controlled breath loosening the vice around my chest.

The components on the table swam back into focus. I reached for the slide, my fingertips connecting with cold metal. Real. Present. Here. Not in Milan. Not with him.

I began reassembling the Ruger, each piece clicking home. This was the one thing I could always count on. Machines didn't lie. They didn't manipulate. They simply performed as designed when treated correctly.

"Just like you, Luka. My most perfect creation."

My jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. The magazine slid home with a solid click. I chambered a round, metal gliding against metal smooth as silk, then engaged the safety and returned the weapon to its hiding place. The entire process took less than four minutes.

What now? Sleep was out of the question. I needed something, anything, to occupy my mind until daylight arrived with its blessed distractions.

I remembered the emergency stash of gummy worms I'd hidden in the kitchen. Pathetic? Maybe. But when your world was falling apart, you grabbed what comfort you could.

I retrieved one bag, the crinkle of plastic absurdly loud in the silence. Red, green, yellow, orange… A rainbow of artificial flavors that had become my bizarre form of self-soothing. I spread them out on the coffee table where gun parts had just been, arranging them by color out of habit.

"Okay," I muttered, picking up a green one. "You're Ferny. "

I placed it carefully on the table, then selected a red one. "And you're Jeremy, you judgmental prick."

But it wasn't the same. Without Vincent's actual plants, without his gentle morning ritual, it was just a grown man playing with candy at three in the morning.

I popped Jeremy in my mouth, biting down harder than necessary.

The artificial cherry flavor burst against my tongue, too sweet and somehow exactly what I needed.

"Sorry for eating you, Jeremy," I told the remaining gummy worms. "But Vincent's been a bad influence on me. Got me feeling guilty about murdering things. Even candy."

I arranged the remaining worms in various positions, creating a ridiculous soap opera. "No, Fern Michaels! Don't fall for Richard's lies! He's sleeping with Vivian on the side!" I moved the worms around, making them argue in increasingly dramatic voices. "He only wants you for your chlorophyll!"

My phone was still in my pocket—one of many burners I'd picked up since arriving. I pulled it out, thumb hovering over the browser. What I needed was something to occupy my mind, something complex enough to drown out Prometheus's voice.

I typed "knife maintenance techniques" into the search bar, then immediately deleted it. The last thing I needed was more violence, more death. After a moment's hesitation, I typed "how to care for orchids" instead.

Jane would have laughed herself sick seeing me study plant care at three in the morning.

"Expanding your skill set, Luka?" she would have asked, that rare smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

Jane never questioned my eccentricities, just accepted them as part of who I was beyond the killing machine Prometheus had created.

I scrolled through care instructions, memorizing light requirements and watering schedules like they were extraction coordinates. Humidity levels. Fertilizer ratios. Soil composition. The specificity soothed something in me, gave me purpose beyond survival.

"Vincent Matthews, what the fuck have you done to me? Forty-eight confirmed kills, and here I am learning how to make baby plants."

I glanced toward Vincent's door, still cracked open. He'd extended that invitation knowingly accepting what I was, what I'd done. Not just the killing, but the immediate, visceral danger I'd proven myself to be. And yet.

I thought of Vincent's steady hands tending my wounds, his calm voice cutting through my panic. The way he'd looked at me not with fear or disgust, but with something almost like understanding.

I abandoned the article on orchid propagation, my mind too scattered to focus. The gummy worms weren't working either. I needed... I didn't know what I needed.

My eyes landed on Vincent's abandoned mug on the counter. Before I could think better of it, I was on my feet, padding silently to the kitchen. I picked up the mug, noting the faint stain of tea on the rim where his mouth had been.

"You're losing it," I told myself, but still brought the mug to the sink, washing it carefully. I could at least make sure he had a clean mug for morning. A stupid, small gesture that meant nothing and everything.

The cut on my cheek throbbed as I bent over the sink, a sharp reminder of the violence that had brought us here. When I touched it gently, the skin felt hot, inflamed despite Vincent's careful attention. My body's rebellion against the damage I'd put it through .

I dried the mug and set it precisely where Vincent liked it, handle turned just so. These tiny details I'd absorbed during my surveillance now felt like precious knowledge instead of intel for a kill.

Back on the couch, I pulled out my phone again, this time searching for "apartment garden ideas." If we ever got out of here—when we got out of here—Vincent would need to rebuild. His plants had been casualties of my world colliding with his. The least I could do was help him start over.

"Look at you," I muttered to myself. "Big bad assassin googling proper humidity levels for tropical plants at three in the morning. What's next? Pinterest boards for cozy reading nooks? Etsy shopping for macramé plant hangers?"

But the detailed instructions soothed something in me, gave me purpose beyond survival. A future worth fighting for, even if it was just helping Vincent resurrect Fern Michaels and that judgmental prick Jeremy.

I scrolled through images of herbs growing in kitchen windows, succulents arranged on floating shelves, finding myself saving links with notes. "This one's like Fern Michaels." "Jeremy would hate being next to this." I built something in my mind that was the opposite of destruction.

A soft sound from Vincent's room made me freeze. I found myself on my feet before I'd made the conscious decision to move, drawn to that cracked door. Just a peek. Just to make sure he was okay.

I stopped at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. Through the gap, I could see him sleeping, face peaceful in the dim light. The bruises on his throat were already darkening but his breathing was deep and even. Trusting. Safe.

I wanted to go to him so badly. I ached to curl around him and prove I could touch without hurting, protect without destroying. But I forced myself back to the couch, each step away feeling like tearing off skin.

"What are you doing, Luka?"

This time the voice wasn't Prometheus but my own, tinged with bewilderment. Planning gardens. Reading philosophy. Playing with candy. Who was this person I was becoming?

Not the weapon Prometheus had forged. Not the perfect killer he'd trained.