Page 24

I'm not an angry person by nature.

But watching Luka thrash in fever dreams, murmuring broken phrases that sounded like pleas for mercy, ignited something primal inside me. Hearing that broken, childlike voice begging someone to stop made rage blazed through my bloodstream until my fingers trembled against his burning skin.

The asclepiad—which was apparently some sort of nurse practitioner—was already packing her Victorian-era bag, having declared the infection came from wounds "deeper than they appeared."

"Change the dressings twice daily," she said briskly, leaving me with antibiotics and instructions but no outlet for this burning fury.

I couldn't stop replaying it. Prometheus. His hands claiming Luka, possessing him through touches simultaneously paternal and sexual. Luka had shrunk into something small and frightened.

Eight million dollars. That's what Luka had been worth to him. Not a child to nurture, but an investment. A tool .

"Never," I whispered fiercely to Luka as he slept. "You're not a tool."

He didn't stir. The bruising around his nose had darkened to deep purple, spreading across both eyes.

I peeled back the blanket to check his dressings, trying to keep my touch clinical.

But my eyes betrayed me, tracking across the planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the sheet.

Even fevered and bruised, he was beautiful in a dangerous way that made my mouth go dry.

"Stop it," I muttered to myself, focusing on the bandages. But when I dabbed antiseptic on a cut near his hip and he arched slightly, a soft groan escaping...

I fled to the kitchen before my thoughts could venture anywhere more inappropriate.

Cooking became my anchor. The rhythmic thud of the knife against the cutting board steadied my pulse as I massacred vegetables.

Soon the counters overflowed with containers full of chicken soup, beef stew, enough food to survive an apocalypse.

My fingers stung raw from hot water and repetitive chopping, but the productivity carved space in my mind to breathe again.

This was more than professional concern. Somewhere between gunfire and fever, I'd begun to care about Luka as more than a patient.

On the fourth morning, I woke to the smell of coffee.

I found Luka in the kitchen wearing only pajama pants, hair damp from showering.

Water droplets traced paths down the map of scars across his chest. His movements were more fluid today, the antibiotics finally winning their battle against infection.

"Morning, sunshine," he greeted with a grin. "Coffee?"

"You shouldn't be up," I managed, forcing myself to focus on his face rather than the defined muscles of his torso.

"Relax, doc. I'm not running marathons." He gestured at the refrigerator. "Did you cook for the apocalypse? "

I blushed. "I might have overdone it."

He handed me coffee, our fingers brushing. The brief contact sent electricity racing up my arm, and from his slight pause, I knew he felt it too.

"We should talk about what happened," I said, setting down my mug. "About Prometheus."

His expression shuttered instantly, a visible tremor running through his hand as he set down his coffee cup forcefully. For a split second, something haunted flickered across his face, but he masked it quickly. "Nothing to talk about.”

I let it go for now. Pushing too hard would only strengthen his defenses.

On the fifth day, Luka paced our apartment like a caged animal, restless energy radiating from him despite his still-healing wounds.

"We need to get out of here," he announced. "I'm going stir-crazy."

I hesitated. "You're still recovering."

"I'll recover better with some fresh air. There's a café in the central plaza. Stavros makes the best gelato this side of Naples."

Limited movement would probably help his recovery. "Fine. But only a short trip. And you tell me if anything starts hurting."

His grin was boyish, almost innocent. "Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout."

"No, but I killed one once." At my horrified expression, he barked out a laugh. "Kidding! Jesus, Vincent, your face."

Twenty minutes later, we walked through the marble corridors of the Acropolis. Luka moved slower than usual, careful of his wounds, but the tension in his shoulders had already eased just by being outside our quarters .

I stayed close, hyperaware of the eyes that followed us. Other assassins watched from shadowed alcoves, conversations pausing as we passed.

"Ignore them," Luka murmured. "They're just curious."

"About what?"

"The therapist who broke Prometheus's favorite toy." His voice was light, but something darker lurked beneath the words.

We reached Stavros' Gelato, a small plaza with tables scattered around a central fountain.

"Due caffè, per favore!" Luka called to Stavros, a burly man behind the counter.

"You speak Italian?" I asked.

Luka shrugged. "Six languages fluently, another four conversationally. Part of the job requirements."

Our coffees arrived, rich and aromatic. We fell into conversation, discussing favorite foods, music preferences, books. It felt normal. Dangerously, deceptively normal.

That's when the commotion started.

The café exploded into motion. Patrons dove under tables and weapons appeared from nowhere. Luka flipped our table onto its side and pulled me behind it in one fluid motion, shielding me with his body.

"Stay down," he ordered, eyes scanning the chaos.

A gunshot cracked through the air, silencing the screams. Then another. The room froze.

I peered around our overturned table. In the center of the café stood a man in a black Stetson, leather vest, actual fucking spurs on his boots. A pearl-handled revolver still smoked in his hand.

At his feet, a body leaked blood across the pristine floor .

My eyes stayed locked on the blood spreading across the floor, and when I licked my lips nervously, I caught the way Luka's gaze tracked the movement.

Boots clicked across the marble in our direction. "Stavros," the cowboy called out, stepping over the corpse. "Stracciatella. Two scoops. Waffle cone."

"Coming right up, Judge Rhadamanthys," Stavros replied, hands only shaking slightly.

Luka helped me up, righting our table as Rhadamanthys waited for his order. The Judge was younger than I'd expected with the kind of dark good looks that belonged on romance novel covers. The cowboy aesthetic should have looked ridiculous, but somehow he made it work.

He collected his ice cream, dropped a penny on the counter, then headed straight for us.

"Fuck," Luka muttered.

Luka's body shifted, angling to put himself between the Judge and me. His hand found my thigh under the table, ready to shove me out of the line of fire if needed.

Rhadamanthys pulled out a chair without asking, sprawling into it with the confidence of someone who'd never been denied anything. He took a long, deliberately sensual lick of his ice cream before speaking.

"Luka," he said, the name rolling off his tongue with a Calabrian accent. "Word has reached these old ears that you killed Hector. Such violence, such passion. One wonders what could drive a man to such extremes, no?"

Luka's muscles coiled tighter. "It was necessary."

"Mmm. Necessity." Another lick, his tongue dragging slowly up the cone. "Such a convenient word, is it not? Covers all manner of sins." His dark eyes danced with amusement. "Though one also hears whispers of a broken contract. Surely this cannot be true?"

"Circumstances changed," Luka replied carefully, fingers pressing harder into my thigh when I started to lean forward.

"Circumstances." He savored the word like a fine wine, dark eyes shifting to me. "And this would be the good doctor? The one who has inspired such... dramatic career changes?"

The way he looked at me made Luka's jaw clench.

"Dr. Vincent Matthews," I said, apparently missing Luka's silent warning to stay quiet.

"Piacere, dottò," Rhadamanthys purred, tipping his hat. "Such a pretty thing you are. Those hands—so gentle, so clean. These are healer's hands, not hands that have known blood. How fascinating that they should capture the attention of our dear Luka!"

Luka's jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped beneath his skin. The casual way Rhadamanthys assessed me, like he was considering taking me for himself, made Luka's eyes narrow dangerously.

"Ah, but look how protective he becomes!" Rhadamanthys laughed. "Like a wolf guarding his chosen mate. How delightfully primal." He turned back to Luka. "The Tribunal observes all, piccolo. Your current situation has provided much entertainment for our evening discussions."

"Are you here officially?" Luka asked, voice rougher than I'd heard since his fever broke.

"If this were official business, bellissimo, we would be having our conversation in far less pleasant surroundings." He took another obscene lick of his ice cream. "No, no. This is merely one professional extending a courtesy to another. A friendly word of caution, if you will."

"Since when do Judges do courtesy calls? "

"Since one of our finest decides to throw away everything for amore." His voice carried a weight that suggested personal experience. "Love makes men do foolish things, no?" He gestured at me with his cone. "Though having seen the prize, one begins to understand the temptation."

My cheeks flushed slightly. The bastard was doing this on purpose, and the way I responded made Luka tense further.

"Eyes on me," Luka growled at Rhadamanthys. "You want to threaten someone, threaten me. Leave him out of it."

Rhadamanthys's eyebrows rose, but his smile widened. "Eccolo! There he is—the killer of such reputation. One was beginning to wonder where you had hidden him! One does not threaten. One merely observes. Notes how fascinating it is when predators learn tenderness. So often, it ends in tragedy."

"My story won't end that way," Luka said flatly.