Page 33

We returned to our apartment past midnight, Luka checking security before we both stumbled through hasty showers.

I crawled into bed, my body aching for sleep while my mind raced. What if Michael wasn’t the only one who suffered because of me? What if Prometheus went after my other patients?

Luka slid under the covers beside me, keeping a careful distance. After a moment's hesitation, I moved closer, my back against his chest, pulling his arm around my waist. If tomorrow we faced death, tonight I wanted to feel alive.

"This okay?" I asked.

"Yeah," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck.

We lay like that for a while, the comfort of another body gradually easing some of the day's tension. I was nearly asleep when Luka's voice broke the silence.

"I meant what I said. In the van." The words scraped from his throat, raw and reluctant.

My heart stuttered. "I know. "

"I don't know what that means," he whispered, vulnerability bleeding through the cracks. "For people like me. Weapons don't get... attachments."

"It means whatever we want it to mean," I replied. "No rulebook. No protocol."

His arm tightened around me slightly. "That's terrifying."

"Welcome to being human. It’s messy and complicated and terrifying."

We drifted into silence again, sleep gradually pulling me under despite everything. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Luka's lips brushing softly against my shoulder.

I jolted awake, throat strangled by a silent scream. Michael's corpse floated behind my eyelids, the rope burns violently purple against gray skin, mouth frozen in a final plea. His eyes. God, his eyes. There was an accusation in them.

Your fault. I’m dead because of you.

The copper taste of terror flooded my mouth. My heart hammered viciously against my ribs. Sweat pasted my shirt to my skin, the material suddenly constricting, suffocating .

In the darkness, Luka slept beside me, his breathing steady and controlled. One hand curled beneath his pillow. The scar along his jaw twitched as he dreamed.

The gentle rhythm of his breathing anchored me, the only steady thing in a world suddenly made of quicksand. Death stalked us both—maybe tomorrow at the funeral, maybe the day after. The fragility of life, the certainty of loss pressed down on my chest until I could barely breathe.

I needed connection. Needed to feel something real and alive against the looming shadow of mortality. I shifted closer, pressing against his back and draping an arm over his waist.

Luka erupted from the bed, his body transforming from sleep to lethal readiness in a single heartbeat. The knife he'd kept beneath his pillow flashed silver in the darkness, arcing toward my throat. His movements were pure reflex.

His weight slammed me back against the mattress, one forearm crushing my windpipe while the knife hovered a millimeter from my carotid.

His eyes remained unfocused, caught somewhere between nightmare and reality, pupils dilated to black holes.

A thin line of sweat beaded along his hairline, his jaw locked so tight I could hear teeth grinding.

The deadliest man I'd ever met was straddling my chest, weapon poised to end me, and I wasn't afraid. I should have been—any sane person would be—but instead, a strange calm washed over me. The tightness in my chest eased as my professional training kicked in.

"Luka," I said softly, keeping my voice low and steady, making my hands visible even in the dim light. No sudden movements. No threat display. "It's me. You're safe."

He released me suddenly and scrambled back. "Fuck! Vince, I could have—"

"But you didn't," I interrupted gently. "You stopped yourself."

"I shouldn't have… You shouldn't have to—" He shook his head, panting.

I moved toward him slowly, telegraphing every movement. "I'm the one who should apologize. That was careless of me."

"Don't," he said sharply. "Don't apologize for existing in your own space."

But I could see the tremors running through him, the way his chest heaved with too-rapid breaths. The nightmare still clung to him giving him a wild look in his eyes.

"Can I touch you?" I asked, staying just out of reach.

He nodded, his head jerking like a marionette with tangled strings. My hands cupped his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. His skin clung cold and clammy against my palms, pulse hammering beneath my fingers like trapped prey seeking escape.

"Bad dream?" I asked softly, though it was obvious.

Another nod. His eyes closed, leaning into my touch like he was starved for it.

"Come back to bed," I suggested. "Let me hold you."

"I don't need—"

"I know you don't need it," I interrupted. "But maybe I need to give it. Please?"

That seemed to break through his automatic defenses. He let me lead him back to the bed, though he sat on the edge rather than lying down, still poised to flee.

I settled beside him and gently pulled him into my arms, arranging us so his back rested against my chest, my arms wrapped around him from behind. The position let me hold him while he could still flee if he needed to. I knew better than to make him feel trapped .

He tensed for a moment before gradually relaxing into the embrace, like his body was learning it was safe to be held.

I breathed deeply, deliberately memorizing his scent in this moment. Not the nightmare sweat or the lingering fear, but the warm, sleepy smell of his skin, the faint trace of soap from his shower earlier, something uniquely Luka underneath it all.

"Fuck," I muttered without thinking, the scent going straight to my cock.

"What?" Luka shifted slightly in my arms.

Heat crawled up my neck. "You smell good. It's... it's making me hard." I paused, recognizing how inappropriate this was. "Which is completely fucked up timing, I know. You just had a nightmare and almost sliced my carotid open, and here I am getting turned on by how you smell."

He went very still in my arms. "You're turned on? Right now?"

"I'm always turned on around you," I admitted.

"Even when it's wildly inappropriate. Especially then, apparently.

My professional ethics board would have a field day with this.

I should probably put that in my notes. 'Patient almost murdered me.

Responded by getting aroused. Suggest immediate license revocation and possible psychiatric evaluation.

Doctor may have serious pathological attraction to near-death experiences. '"

"Your professional ethics board can fuck off," he said, turning in my arms to face me. "Are you seriously hard right now?"

"Feel for yourself," I challenged, knowing I was playing with fire.

His hand slid down between us, finding my cock through my pajama bottoms. "Jesus, Vince. I almost killed you five minutes ago."

"But you didn't," I said, grinding into his palm. The filter between my brain and mouth had apparently dissolved completely .

Two warring parts of myself battled for control.

The rational therapist—the one with ethics training and professional boundaries—screamed warnings about power imbalances, trauma bonding, and inappropriate arousal responses.

This was textbook crisis-induced attachment, my clinical brain insisted.

This wasn't real; it was just adrenaline and fear creating a false intimacy.

But the part of me that had spent years suppressing during therapy sessions and failed relationships, didn't care about the psychological explanations.

That part recognized Luka as the embodiment of everything I'd always secretly craved but never allowed myself to pursue.

The danger I'd always orbited from a safe distance was now pressing me against the mattress, and I was tired of fighting my own desires.

"You stopped yourself," I continued, voice rough with want. "You chose not to hurt me even when every instinct was screaming at you to attack. Do you have any idea how hot that is?"

A memory surfaced of Todd's horrified face when I'd begged him to hold me down, to make it hurt just a little. He’d reacted with disgust and a lecture about how unhealthy it was. I'd spent months in my own therapy afterward, trying to "fix" desires that apparently couldn't be fixed.

"You're insane," Luka breathed, but his pupils were dilating, black swallowing blue.

"Probably," I agreed. "But I've spent years denying what I want, pretending to be satisfied with men who bored me to tears.

Analyzing my own unhealthy attachments and attraction to danger until I convinced myself I could be content with safe, predictable partners.

" My voice dropped lower, a confession I'd never made aloud.

"Now we might die at that funeral. I'm done pretending.

Done wasting time." I leaned closer, close enough to feel his breath against my lips.

"I want the control you have. I want to see what happens when you let it slip. Just a little. With me."

"Vince..."

"I know what I'm asking," I interrupted. "I know exactly who you are, what you're capable of. And I'm still asking."

He swallowed hard, and I could see the war in his eyes—wanting versus fear, need versus control. Finally, he nodded.

I kissed him softly, nothing like our previous desperate encounters. This was gentle exploration, learning the shape of his mouth when he wasn't trying to devour or be devoured. He made a small sound of surprise.

"Still okay?" I asked against his lips.

"I... yeah. Yes."

I kissed him again, deeper this time but still slow, my tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he opened for me. One hand tangled in his hair while the other rested on his chest, his heartbeat gradually slowing from its panicked racing.

"Let me see you," I murmured, fingers finding the hem of his shirt.

He lifted his arms, letting me pull it off, but I could see the vulnerability in the gesture. How many people had undressed him with care instead of haste?