Page 36

I woke with Vincent's scent filling my nose.

He was curled against me, one arm thrown across my chest, face buried in the crook of my neck. His steady breathing brushed warm against my collarbone, each exhale a reminder of last night.

I think I'm falling in love with you.

Holy fucking shit. I'd actually said that out loud.

Not just thought it in the privacy of my own disaster brain, but vocalized it with my actual mouth like some lovesick teenager writing bad poetry.

And worse was Vincent's response, the gentle acceptance, the reciprocation that terrified me more than facing a firing squad naked.

That's the best thing anyone's ever said to me. I'm all in, Luka.

My throat closed like I was being strangled by invisible hands.

My skin went clammy despite the furnace of Vincent's body pressed against mine.

What the actual fuck had I done? Love was nothing but a liability, a weakness enemies exploited, a guarantee of inevitable betrayal.

In twenty-six years as Prometheus's attack dog, I'd learned exactly one truth about connection: it always, always ended with someone bleeding out on the floor.

Usually not me, but this time? All bets were off.

Prometheus' words slithered through my mind like toxic sludge, poisoning everything they touched.

He'd been right about so many things. What if he was right about this too?

Once Vincent no longer needed my murderous skill set, once the danger passed, would he look at me and finally see the monster beneath the fuckable packaging?

Vincent stirred against me, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks before opening. Those dark eyes found mine, warming as his lips curved into a smile so genuine it fucking hurt.

"Morning," he murmured, voice sleep-rough.

I couldn't bear it. Couldn't stand the tenderness in his gaze when I knew— knew —it wouldn't last. Once we survived this, once Vincent no longer needed a human shield, he'd retreat to his safe, ethical life of healing and forget the killer who'd temporarily fascinated him.

"Morning," I replied, voice flat.

I untangled myself from his arms, creating cold space between us. My muscles tensed as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, spine rigid. In my peripheral vision, I caught the flicker of confusion that crossed Vincent's face, the slight furrowing of his brow.

"I should get up," I said, reaching for sweatpants to hide the trembling in my hands. "Need coffee."

The words came out clipped, professional. The voice I used for debriefs after successful missions, not for mornings after spilling my fucking soul to someone. Vincent's face fell.

"Sure," he replied carefully. "I'll be out in a minute."

I escaped to the kitchen, where I gripped the counter hard enough to whiten my knuckles, head hanging between my shoulders. My chest physically ached, like someone had carved out something vital with a rusty spoon and left the wound raw and festering .

"We can fake it with the best of them, can't we, Luka?" Prometheus had once told me after watching me charm information from a target. "But people like us can never truly connect. That's what makes us special."

The coffee maker gurgled and hissed, filling the apartment with a rich aroma that couldn't mask the smell of my own fear. I'd survived torture, bullets, and enough knife wounds to qualify as a human pincushion, but my own emotional diarrhea might actually kill me.

By the time Vincent joined me twenty minutes later, I'd rebuilt enough walls to function. He'd showered, his hair still damp, wearing borrowed sweatpants that hung low on his hips. The bruises I'd left on his neck last night stood out in stark purple against his skin.

I handed him coffee without meeting his eyes. His confusion was palpable, filling the space between us like smoke.

"Sleep okay?" Vincent asked, attempting a casual tone that didn't quite hide his concern.

My skin prickled. He was analyzing me, using those therapist skills to dissect my withdrawal, and I hated being so fucking transparent.

"Fine," I snapped, the word sharp enough to cut.

Vincent's eyes searched mine, confusion edged with determination. "Luka, about last night—"

"It's fine," I cut him off. If he made me talk about it, I'd drown. " Your patient's funeral is tomorrow, and we need a plan."

"Michael." Vincent's voice softened, pain etching lines around his eyes. "His name was Michael."

The genuine grief in his expression made me feel like shit.

After seeing Michael's body hanging from that shower rod and making plans for the funeral at our meeting with Jasper and Diego, Vincent was still processing his patient's murder.

That fundamental decency was exactly why Prometheus saw him as such a threat, and exactly what drew me to him in the first place .

It was also why he'd eventually leave. Good men didn't stay with killers once the danger passed. Vincent might think he wanted me now, when adrenaline and fear scrambled his judgment, but after? When normal life resumed?

My eyes caught on his lips as he sipped his coffee, remembering how they'd felt against mine last night, how they'd whispered acceptance against my skin when I'd finally broken open. The memory sent heat spiraling through me, dangerous and unwanted.

“So what’s on the agenda today?” he asked.

"Lo’s supposed to come over," I replied, forcing my gaze away. "He should have more detailed information on what we can expect at the funeral. He was doing recon last night.”

“And after?”

I shrugged. “We survive the funeral, gather intel on Prometheus's current activities, and use that to build our next move. It's not much, but it's a start."

"I meant after that," Vincent said quietly. "After the funeral, after Prometheus... if we survive all this, what then?"

After. As if there could be an after for someone like me.

"Let's focus on surviving first."

Before Vincent could press further, the suite's door burst open without warning. I jumped to my feet instantly, knife in hand, before recognizing the intruder.

"Morning, lovebirds!" Lo sang out, sauntering in, arms full of shopping bags. "I come bearing gifts, news, and designer coffee that will change your life."

I lowered the knife, relief at the interruption evaporating my initial irritation. "Fucking announce yourself next time. I nearly put this through your eye. "

"Promises, promises," Lo dismissed, setting his bags on the counter. He wore skin-tight purple leather pants, a mesh top that revealed more than it covered, and a cropped leather jacket criss-crossed by unnecessary zippers.

His eyes tracked between Vincent and me, narrowing slightly at the tense distance we maintained. Lo missed nothing. It was what made him both an excellent assassin and an annoying friend.

"Vincent!" he exclaimed, ignoring me entirely to air-kiss Vincent's cheeks. "You look absolutely ravished. Someone's been having fun." He shot me a knowing smirk. "Good job, killer. About time you put those ridiculous piercings to proper use."

Heat crawled up Vincent's neck, but he smiled despite the blush. "Is privacy just not a concept in the assassin world?"

"Privacy is for people who don't have fabulous news," Lo declared, pulling cups from a carrier I hadn't noticed. "Drink first, then I'll spill the tea."

He handed us each a cup, his fingers lingering on mine a second too long, his eyes questioning. I gave an imperceptible head shake. Not now.

I sniffed my cup suspiciously. "What is this?"

"Only the most incredible cortado in the Acropolis," Lo replied, already sipping his own. "Ambrosia, two extra shots and a hint of caramel. Trust me."

I took a cautious sip and had to admit it tasted pretty fucking amazing. Vincent made a small sound of appreciation that shot straight to my groin, his lips closing around the cup rim in a way that made my mouth go dry.

"Okay, news," I demanded, dragging my attention away from Vincent's mouth. "What's got you bouncing around like you're on a coke bender at eight in the morning? "

Lo perched on the edge of the table. "First, I have funeral details! The funeral is tomorrow at two PM, Westside Memorial Gardens." He said it as if he were sharing party plans rather than information about a dead man’s memorial service.

Only Lo would get this excited about a funeral. The man treated mortality like most people treated weekend brunch.

"The family wanted an autopsy, but they were... encouraged... to expedite things." Lo made air quotes around "encouraged."

"Prometheus," I growled, the name sour on my tongue.

"Almost certainly," Lo confirmed. "He's pulling strings, which means—"

"It's a trap," I finished. "We already knew that."

"It's a very elaborate one," Lo added, pulling a tablet from one of his bags and bringing up surveillance maps.

"I've been doing reconnaissance. The cemetery is surrounded by perfect sniper positions on three sides.

The fourth side is a lake. It's an obvious kill box, Luka.

Every ferryman within five hundred miles will be there. "

"And in a cemetery, no less," I muttered, disgust coloring my voice. "Breaking one of the few unspoken rules we actually respect."

Vincent's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Cemeteries and graveyards are sacred ground to ferrymen," I explained. "It's deeply frowned upon to conduct business there. No contracts, no kills, no negotiations. It's just... respect for the dead, I guess. One of the few decent traditions we maintain."

"I didn't realize assassins had a code of ethics," Vincent said.

"Not ethics exactly," Lo chimed in, examining his nails. "More like... professional courtesy. Like not killing someone while they're on the toilet. Some things are just tasteless."

"And Prometheus is deliberately violating this tradition," I said. "Which is exactly what we need. "

Both Lo and Vincent stared at me.