Page 39

God, I was an idiot. I could recognize this pattern in any of my patients—the testing, the need for reassurance disguised as rejection—but somehow I'd completely missed it with Luka.

Maybe because I was too close, too emotionally invested to see the classic avoidant attachment patterns right in front of me.

"Because I thought that's what you wanted," I said quietly. "I thought you regretted being vulnerable last night and needed space. I was trying to respect your boundaries."

"You thought I was just using it as a distraction, right? As some kind of fucked-up coping mechanism." He took a step closer, his voice dropping lower. "You're treating me like a patient, Vincent. Like something broken that needs to be fixed."

"You got it all wrong," he continued, running a hand roughly through his hair.

"When I reach for you and you don't reach back, it feels like I'm not worth fighting for.

Sex isn't just sex for me. It's the only time I get to feel like someone actually wants me.

Really wants me, not just what I can do for them.

Everyone else in my life only wants what I can give them.

What I can do? Kill for them, spy for them, be their perfect fucking weapon.

No one has ever just wanted me." His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "Just Luka."

The accuracy of his words left me speechless. He paced a few steps away, then turned back, something wild and vulnerable in his eyes.

"You read my fucking file. You know I don't do this... this talking about feelings crap." He gestured sharply between us. "But I'm trying here, so just... just listen, okay?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

He blew out a harsh breath and ran both hands through his hair.

"When I was eighteen, Prometheus took me to Milan." Luka's voice flattened, his eyes focusing somewhere beyond the shooting range walls. "Said I was ready. Not just for solo missions."

He stopped, jaw muscles bunching beneath his skin. His fingers twitched toward a weapon that wasn't there, a reflex so ingrained he probably didn't even notice it. I watched a fine tremor start in his hands, spreading upward until his shoulders quivered.

"I spent six nights in that hotel suite." Each word emerged precise, clinical. "Six nights of champagne that tasted strange. Six nights where I couldn't quite coordinate my limbs properly. Six nights of…"

My stomach dropped, acid rising in my throat as the implications crystallized. Sweat trickled down my spine despite the room's perfect temperature.

"He fucked me," Luka said, the words dropping between us like spent shell casings. "And the worst part? I thought I wanted it. Thought I was special. Thought it was love."

He shook his head and looked down at his hands.

They were steady now, perfectly controlled, but his knuckles had gone white.

A muscle jumped in his throat as he swallowed hard.

"I built my entire identity around it. Being chosen.

Being special to him. But it wasn't love.

It wasn't even desire. It was just... control.

And now, with you... I don't know how to do this.

Whatever this is between us feels nothing like what I had with him.

It doesn't hurt. It doesn't feel like I'm being used.

And that scares the shit out of me, because I don't know if I can trust it. "

My throat constricted. The shooting range seemed to shrink around us, the walls closing in as the implications of his words registered. I fought to keep my breathing even, to maintain a steady presence for him. Not as his therapist, but as someone who cared deeply, someone who wanted to understand.

He let out a bitter laugh. "Back then, I was actually... proud. Like I was fucking special. The North American Director himself, choosing me. Like it was some achievement to lose my virginity to the most powerful man in the organization."

The room tilted, my vision narrowing as I forced myself to stay present.

I gripped the counter edge behind me, needing the physical anchor as waves of nausea threatened to overwhelm me.

I wanted to scream, to break something, to find this Prometheus and tear him apart.

The violence of my own thoughts shocked me.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, tendons standing out like cables beneath his skin.

"I was always watching him, always trying to please him.

Looking for his approval. And, I mean, he wasn't wrong.

He was like a literal god to me and I was…

" He waved dismissively. "I was just Luka.

Who the fuck would want that, right? And I thought… I thought…"

His eyes shimmered before he slammed his lids shut and turned away.

When he spoke again, his voice was strained and small.

"Why would anyone ever want me after that?

After he... used me and tossed me aside?

I felt..." He struggled for words, jaw working.

"Contaminated. Like he'd marked me from the inside where no one could see, but everyone would know. "

One hand moved unconsciously to his abdomen, fingers splayed across the muscle there as if protecting something beneath. "He told me afterward that no one else would ever truly want me. That I was ruined for normal people. Too twisted, too broken. That only he could appreciate what I'd become."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "And the sick part? I believed him. For years, I believed him. Every hookup, every meaningless fuck was just proving him right. That I wasn't worth staying for. That I wasn't worth fighting for."

My chest ached as if something physical had broken open inside me, sharp edges digging into soft tissue. The pure calculation of the psychological prison Prometheus had built for him—was breathtaking in its cruelty.

My chest felt too tight, each breath a deliberate act as I listened.

The taste of bile rose in my throat, and I had to consciously relax my jaw, which had clenched so hard my teeth ached.

I needed to be present for him, to bear witness without falling apart.

My hands trembled slightly, and I clasped them together to still them.

"It wasn't assault," he said with a harsh laugh that held no humor. "I didn't fight back. I didn't say no. Besides, he said it was part of my training. Building trust or some shit. That he loved me in his way."

I couldn't stay silent any longer. "Luka," I said gently, keeping my voice steady despite the rage churning inside me. "You were drugged. You couldn't consent. That's the definition of assault."

His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise, then narrowing defensively. "Don't—"

"I'm not analyzing you," I said quickly.

"I'm just stating facts. If someone did that to any other person, you'd call it what it is.

He drugged you. He used his position of power over you.

You were eighteen, and he was your mentor.

" I took a careful step toward him. "What he did wasn't love. It wasn't training. It was abuse."

He stared at me, something shifting behind his eyes—confusion, uncertainty, a flicker of recognition that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't to blame. Then his expression hardened.

"Anyway, it doesn't fucking matter. It was a long time ago.

" He finally looked directly at me, his expression instantly shuttering.

A mask slammed down over the vulnerability, his posture shifting from open to defensive in a heartbeat.

His chin lifted, shoulders squared, body bracing for rejection.

"Don't look at me like that. Like I'm some fucking victim. "

"I'm not—"

"You are," he snapped. The flush that crept up his neck wasn't embarrassment but anger, a physical manifestation of his need to reclaim control of the narrative.

He jabbed a finger in my direction. "That's the problem.

You're looking at me with those therapist's eyes, seeing all the cracks, all the damage.

Like you could ever want someone this fucked up. "

"I see someone who survived," I said firmly. "Someone who found a way to reclaim himself when everything was taken from him. That's not broken, Luka. That's incredible strength."

He blinked, clearly not expecting that response. For a moment, his defenses wavered, uncertainty flickering across his face.

"I don't pity you," I continued, choosing each word carefully. "I'm furious at what was done to you, but not because I think it diminished you. Because you deserved better."

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "You know those broken Japanese plates? The ones they repair with gold instead of trying to hide the cracks?"

I nodded, surprised by the shift .

"That's what these are." He gestured toward his piercings.

"After Milan, after he... I felt worthless.

Damaged beyond repair. Used goods. So I got these.

Each one hurt like a motherfucker, but they were mine.

My choice. My pain. I couldn't erase what he did, couldn't pretend I wasn't broken.

But I could add something valuable to the broken parts.

Make them worth more because they'd been broken, not less. "

He held my gaze, a fierce light in his eyes now. "Every time someone sees them, touches them, they're touching something I made beautiful despite him. Despite what he took from me. It's like saying, 'Yes, I'm broken here, but look what I've made of it.'"

He stepped closer, his intensity almost overwhelming.

"So when I want you to touch me, when I pull away and hope you'll follow, that's not me playing games.

That's me asking if I matter enough for you to chase me.

If I'm worth fighting for." His voice dropped to almost a whisper.

"After last night…after you held me through that fucking nightmare about Ana, after everything I told you, I woke up needing to know if you still wanted me.

And when you just let me go, I had my answer. "

My heart ached at the realization. In trying to respect his boundaries, I'd only reinforced his deepest fear that once he showed vulnerability, I'd abandon him at the first sign of withdrawal.

A classic trauma response, and I'd walked right into it, reinforcing exactly what Prometheus had programmed into him—that no one would ever truly want him enough to fight for him.

"I do want you," I said quietly. "I've wanted you since that first day in my office. I just didn't understand what you needed from me. I thought I was being respectful by giving you space when you pulled away. I didn't realize you were asking me to prove I wouldn't give up on you."

His eyes widened slightly. "I wasn't testing you. "

"Weren't you?" I asked gently, not as a therapist, but as someone who cared deeply. "Luka, it's okay to need reassurance. Especially after what you've been through."

"What if I need it all the time?" he asked, voice barely audible. "What if it's never enough? What if my... neediness... eventually pushes you away, too?"

The question held such raw honesty that for a moment I couldn't speak. This was the real fear. Not just that I wouldn't want him enough to chase him, but that his need for reassurance would eventually exhaust me.

"Then I'll keep showing you," I said simply. "Every day. Until you believe it."

"I don't need you to fix me," he said, but the heat had gone out of his voice. His posture began to open again, the defensive stance gradually easing. "I need you to want me exactly as fucked up as I am."

"I do want you," I said firmly. "All of you. Not as a patient. Not as someone to fix. Just you, Luka."

I moved close enough that our chests nearly touched, close enough to feel the heat from his skin.

For a heartbeat, I hesitated, remembering how badly I'd misinterpreted his signals this morning.

Then I deliberately reached out, placing my palm against his cheek.

The slight stubble rasped against my palm, his skin hot beneath my touch.

"I'm going to mess up again," I said quietly. "I'll probably get it wrong sometimes. But I'm not going anywhere, Luka. Not unless you tell me to."

His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them again, the blue was electric, pupils dilated. His pulse jumped visibly at his throat, a rapid flutter beneath the skin .

"Speaking of impossible challenges," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "any chance you could teach me that card trick? That was seriously impressive."

His laugh was genuine, the darkness momentarily banished. The tension in his shoulders released in a visible wave, like watching ice melt in the sun. "Maybe after we survive tomorrow. It took me years to perfect."

"It's a date," I said, the word hanging between us with new significance.

Luka's smile widened. He handed me the gun again, his fingers lingering against mine. "Let's get back to work. A few more magazines, then we should meet up with Lo to finalize plans for tomorrow."

As I took my stance again, I realized that despite everything, I felt more alive than I had in years.

And if we survived tomorrow, I intended to show Luka exactly what that meant.