Page 51

The Acropolis closed around us like a tomb.

The heavy doors sealed with an ominous thud that echoed through the marble hallways.

We'd made it back alive—barely. The bullet graze on Luka's shoulder had stopped bleeding, but the wound in his psyche gaped wider with every passing moment, raw and festering.

Ana was alive. His twin sister, mourned for twenty-six years, was Prometheus's wife. And she hadn't recognized him at all.

The suite felt cold when we entered, our footsteps echoing against the marble floors.

The ticking of the clock on the wall hammered against my eardrums. Luka hadn't spoken a word since we'd fled the restaurant.

Not when Lo and Diego had provided cover fire, bullets whizzing past our heads.

Not when we'd switched vehicles twice to lose our tail, the stench of gasoline and burnt rubber filling the air.

Not even when Jasper had confirmed through our earpieces that the tracker was working.

Prometheus's location was now a blinking dot on a digital map, and he didn’t even seem to care .

In the harsh light of the suite, I could finally see him clearly.

His skin had a gray undertone, like ash smeared beneath the surface.

His eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring at ghosts only he could see.

Blood had dried on his shirt where the bullet had grazed him.

But it wasn't the physical wound that concerned me.

It was the absolute stillness of him, the way he stood just inside the door, not moving, barely breathing, a statue carved from grief and rage.

"Luka," I said softly. "Let me see your shoulder."

He didn't respond. Didn't even blink. Just stared at some middle distance, seeing horrors I couldn't imagine.

"Luka," I tried again, reaching out slowly to touch his arm.

The moment my fingers made contact, he jerked away violently, finally coming to life. "Don't."

I pulled back, giving him space.

"I can still smell Prometheus. That fucking cologne." He pulled at his collar like it was choking him, knuckles white with strain. "I can smell him on me. In my clothes. On my skin."

"Let me help you," I said, keeping my voice even and calm despite the anxiety churning in my gut. "Your shoulder needs cleaning. And then you can shower. Get his smell off you."

His eyes finally focused on me, recognition bleeding through the shock like ink through water.

"She looked right through me, Vincent. Like I was a stranger.

My own sister. My twin." His jaw worked, muscles jumping beneath his skin.

"She has my eyes. My fucking eyes. And she looked at me like I was nothing. "

"I know. I'm so sorry."

"I left her with him." His voice dropped to a whisper, the words hanging in the air like poisonous smoke. "Just like before. I abandoned her to that monster. "

"We're going to find her," I promised, though I had no idea how. "But first, I need to take care of that shoulder."

He nodded mechanically, following me to the bathroom like a sleepwalker.

I guided him to sit on the closed toilet lid while I gathered first aid supplies.

When I turned back, he'd removed his shirt, revealing the angry furrow where the bullet had grazed him.

Ragged edges of torn flesh carved a line of crimson against his tanned skin.

I cleaned the wound carefully, the sharp tang of antiseptic filling the small space between us.

His muscles twitched involuntarily under my touch, but his face remained blank, as if the connection between mind and body had been severed.

His eyes remained fixed on the bathroom wall, seeing something far beyond this room.

"She's his wife," he said suddenly, voice hollow. "He took a seven-year-old girl and groomed her into his perfect wife. Made her think she was someone else entirely. What kind of sick fuck—" His voice broke, the words strangling in his throat.

I applied butterfly bandages to the wound, my touch as gentle as possible on his abused skin. "We're going to make him pay for that. For everything he's done to both of you."

"You don't understand," Luka said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "He's had her for twenty-six years. Twenty-six years of carefully constructed lies. He's good at this, Vincent. The best. He broke me, remade me. What chance does Ana have after a lifetime of his manipulation?"

He stood abruptly, pacing the small bathroom like a caged predator.

Every movement vibrated with barely contained violence, muscles coiling and releasing beneath his skin.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, fingers twitching toward weapons that weren't there, muscle memory seeking familiar comfort in violence .

"Talk to me," I urged, needing to keep him present. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"No." The word came out like a bullet, striking the air between us.

I stepped closer, despite every instinct telling me to give him space. "Then let me touch you."

He froze, his eyes finally focusing on me properly. A flash of hunger cut through the shock, primal and raw. His pupils expanded so rapidly it transformed his eyes, blue swallowed by endless black. "You don't want to touch me right now."

"I do," I countered, standing my ground. "Let me help you feel something else. Something besides this."

For a moment, I thought he might refuse again, might retreat further into himself. Then his hand shot out, grabbing my wrist in a grip just shy of painful. His fingers pressed into my pulse point, hot against my skin.

"You want to fuck me?" His voice had dropped to a dangerous register I'd rarely heard before, guttural and rough. The sound sent an inappropriate shiver down my spine, pooling heat low in my belly despite the circumstances. "Fine. But I decide how. I decide where. I decide when to stop."

I nodded, understanding what he needed. Control. When everything else had been ripped away, control was the one thing he could still claim.

He pulled me roughly from the bathroom into the bedroom.

With a firm push that sent air rushing from my lungs, he sent me sprawling onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath my sudden weight.

He followed, straddling my hips, still shirtless, the bandage stark white against his skin.

His thighs clamped around mine like steel bands, pinning me in place .

"Don't move," he ordered, his weight pressing me down, the heat of him burning through my clothes.

I stayed perfectly still, watching as some of the wild energy seemed to leak out of him now that he had direction, purpose.

His hands moved to my shirt, yanking it over my head with an efficiency that left no room for gentleness.

Threads popped and fabric strained, but I lifted my arms to help, otherwise remaining passive, letting him take what he needed.

His hands pressed against my chest, fingers splayed wide. The rough calluses on his palms scraped against my skin, leaving trails of sensation in their wake. His breathing was still too fast, his eyes still slightly unfocused, but he seemed more present than before.

"This is real," he murmured, more to himself than to me, his voice a rough scrape of sound. "You're real."

"I'm real," I confirmed. "I'm here with you."

His fingers dug into my shoulders, hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks that would bloom purple by morning.

Not to hurt, but to feel, to assure himself of my solidity.

One hand slid up to wrap around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there.

His eyes fluttered closed, and he tipped his head back.

I realized then he was feeling my pulse, my breathing. Proof of life.

I remained still, letting him take whatever he needed from me. This wasn't about sex or pleasure. This was about survival. About finding an anchor in a storm that threatened to drown him.

His other hand moved down my chest, fingers tracing the dips and valleys of my ribs, like he was relearning human anatomy.

The disconnect in his eyes worried me. He was here but not here, torn in two.

There was a part of Luka that was still back there at the restaurant while the rest of him had come forward in time with me .

Slowly, carefully, I lifted my hand to his chest, placing my palm flat against his heart. He flinched as if struck, muscles jumping beneath my touch, but didn't stop me. His heart hammered against my palm, a frantic drumbeat of life and fear.

"Feel that?" I asked quietly. "Your heart beating. You're alive, Luka. You survived. You're here with me."

Recognition flickered in his eyes. His grip on my throat loosened slightly, though his thumb continued to stroke the pulse point there.

I took a chance, leaning up to press my lips to his chest. Not a kiss, exactly. It was more a reverent, open-mouthed press against his skin, right above his heart. My breath heated his skin, my lips catching on the fine hairs there. An acknowledgment of his pain, his existence, his survival.

His entire body went rigid, his breath catching audibly. The hand around my throat trembled, his fingers suddenly uncertain.

"Let me take you apart," I whispered against his skin. "Let me help you feel something else."

For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, he nodded, the motion so slight I felt rather than saw it.

"Don't move unless I say," he managed, his voice rough with emotion he refused to name.

"Okay," I agreed. "I'll follow your lead."

He released my throat, climbing off me to stand beside the bed. His hands went to his belt, unbuckling it with quick, efficient movements. The leather slid through the loops with a soft hiss that raised goosebumps on my arms. He stripped off his pants but left his boxers on.

"I need—" he started, then stopped, frustration twisting his features, jaw working silently. "I don't know what I need. "