Page 52

I remembered an old technique from my trauma therapy training. Something to bring him back into his body, to ground him in physical sensation when emotions threatened to overwhelm.

"Can I try something?" I asked. "It might help."

He nodded once, sharply, suspicion and curiosity warring in his expression.

"I'll be right back," I said, slipping past him to the kitchen. I returned with a small bowl of ice, the chill radiating from it as I set it on the nightstand.

His eyes tracked my movements, wary but curious, like a predator assessing unfamiliar prey.

"This is a technique I've used with trauma patients," I explained, sitting beside him with the bowl.

"Usually they'd just hold the ice in their hands.

The cold sensation creates an immediate physical anchor to the present.

But I thought, given our relationship, we might adapt it a bit.

" I offered a small smile. "Same principle, different application. Lie down on your back."

To my surprise, he complied, stretching out on the bed, his body tense as a drawn bow.

Every was muscle defined beneath his skin, ready for flight or fight.

I sat beside him, taking an ice cube from the bowl.

It immediately began melting against my fingers, water trickling down my wrist in cold rivulets.

"This is just about sensation," I explained, holding the ice where he could see it, the cube glistening in the low light. "Physical feeling. Nothing else." I hesitated. "May I?"

"Do it," he said, an edge of challenge in his voice, something almost desperate beneath the bravado.

I brought the ice to his collarbone, trailing it slowly across his skin. He hissed, body jerking slightly at the cold, goosebumps erupting in the ice's wake like a visible wave .

"Focus on the sensation," I instructed, moving the ice in small circles. "The cold. The wet. The way your skin responds."

His eyes drifted closed, face tightening as the ice melted against his warm skin, droplets trailing down his neck and pooling in the hollow of his throat. I watched carefully as his breathing slowed, some of the tension melting from his muscles like the ice beneath my fingers.

I took another cube, drawing it down his sternum. The frozen surface immediately clouded against his body heat. A thin trail of water followed the ice's path, glistening in the low light. His stomach muscles contracted, a small, involuntary response to the cold, skin pebbling in its wake.

"That's it," I murmured. "Just feel. Nothing else matters right now."

The third cube I traced around his nipple, watching it harden instantly, drawing into a tight peak. His breath caught, a small sound escaping him that wasn't quite pain, wasn't quite pleasure.

"Too much?" I asked, watching his face for signs of distress.

"No, keep going."

I continued my careful exploration, using the ice to map his body—chest, arms, stomach.

Bringing him back into himself through pure sensation.

With each cube, his breathing deepened, his muscles relaxing incrementally.

The melting ice left glistening trails across his skin, like tears he would never allow himself to shed.

When I traced the ice along the waistband of his boxers, his eyes snapped open, focusing on me with an intensity that sent liquid heat pooling low in my belly. The frozen barrier between us had melted, replaced by something molten and alive.

"Come here," he said, voice rough but present now.

I set the ice aside, moving closer. His hand came up to grip the back of my neck, pulling me down until our foreheads touched. The chill of the ice lingered on my fingertips, a stark contrast to the burning heat of his skin against mine.

"You're bringing me back," he whispered, his breath warm against my lips. "How are you doing that?"

"Sensation," I explained. "When emotions are too much, physical feeling can ground you. Bring you back to yourself."

He nodded, our foreheads still pressed together, his breath mingling with mine. "I can feel it. The cold. The heat afterward. It's...clarifying."

"Good," I said softly. "That's what I wanted."

His hand tightened on my neck. "I left her with him," he said, the words raw but controlled now. "But I'm going to rescue her."

"Yes," I agreed. "We will."

His other hand moved to my hip, fingers digging in, hot and possessive against my skin. "I need—" He stopped, swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. "I need you."

"How?" I asked simply.

His answer was to pull me down, mouth finding mine in a kiss that wasn't gentle but wasn't brutal either. It was desperate, needy. His lips pressed against mine, warm and firm, his tongue sweeping into my mouth without hesitation.

"I need to feel something else," he murmured against my lips, the words vibrating between us. "Something besides this...emptiness. This rage."

I nodded, understanding completely. "Tell me what you need."

His hands moved to my pants, undoing the button with unsteady fingers. "These off."

I helped him, shedding my remaining clothes until I was naked beside him. He stared at me for a long moment.

"Straddle me," he ordered, his voice rough with need .

I moved over him, settling my weight carefully across his hips, mindful of his injured shoulder.

His hands came to my hips, steadying me. "Stay just like this," he instructed, reaching for the ice bowl again.

I watched, curious, as he took a cube, bringing it to my chest. The cold shock made me gasp, goosebumps racing across my skin as he traced a freezing path from my collarbone to my navel.

"Now you understand," he said, a ghost of his usual smirk appearing briefly, the familiar expression like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

The normalcy of that expression, however fleeting, made something in my chest loosen. He was coming back to himself, piece by piece, emerging from the fog of shock and grief.

The ice melted against my heated skin, droplets trailing down my body. Luka watched their path with hypnotic focus, his breathing steadier now, deeper.

"More?" he asked, reaching for another cube, water dripping between his fingers.

I nodded, holding still as he traced this one along my ribs, then down, skating dangerously close to my rapidly hardening cock. The contrast between the ice's biting cold and his body's heat beneath me was intoxicating, two extremes meeting where our bodies joined.

"Feel that?" he asked, voice low and rough, like gravel against silk. "Just physical sensation. Nothing else. Nothing complicated."

"I feel it," I confirmed, my voice trembling slightly as the ice left freezing trails across my sensitized skin.

He nodded, satisfied, then took another cube.

This one he brought to his own mouth, letting it melt partially before trailing his cold tongue across my chest. The sensation ripped a gasp from me, the contrast between ice and tongue overwhelming.

Cold, then hot, then cold again as his tongue dragged across my skin, leaving damp trails that cooled instantly in the air.

"God, Luka," I breathed, unable to stop the shiver that ran through me.

His hands tightened on my hips, pulling me more firmly against him. I could feel him hardening beneath me, his cock pressing against mine through the thin barrier of his boxers. The wet cotton clung to the outline of his cock, the metal piercings visible as ridges beneath the fabric.

"Take these off me," he ordered, lifting his hips slightly.

I complied, sliding down his body to remove his boxers, then returning to my position astride him. Now there was nothing between us, skin to skin, heat to heat. His cock stood proud against his stomach, those distinctive metal bars catching the light.

His hand wrapped around both our cocks, pressing them together in a grip that was almost too tight. The metal bars of his piercings pressed against my flesh, creating points of delicious pressure that had my hips jerking involuntarily.

"This," he said, voice rough with arousal and something deeper, something almost like reverence. "Just this. Just us."

I nodded, understanding what he needed. No penetration, no complexity—just connection, friction, presence. The simplest form of intimacy.

He began to move his hand, stroking us together with a grip that was just shy of painful.

I braced my hands on his chest, careful of his wounded shoulder, rolling my hips to match his rhythm.

The slide of our cocks against each other, slick with pre-cum and melted ice, sent electricity racing up my spine.

"Look at me," he demanded, his free hand coming up to grip my chin, forcing my gaze to his. "Don't look away. "

I met his gaze, shocked by the naked vulnerability I found there. Not just desire but raw, desperate need for connection, for grounding, for proof that something good still existed in a world where his sister could be erased and remade into a stranger.

"I'm here," I told him, holding his gaze, refusing to look away. "I'm not going anywhere."

Something broke in his expression. Not a fracture but a surrender. His free hand came up to grip the back of my neck, pulling me down until our foreheads pressed together again, breath mingling between us. The intimacy of the position, more than any sexual act, threatened to undo me completely.

"Vincent." The word ghosted across my lips, a promise and a plea.

Our bodies moved together, finding a rhythm that built steadily.

The sensation of his cock against mine, the tight grip of his hand around us both, the cold trace of ice still lingering on our skin.

It all combined into something primal and necessary.

His breathing grew ragged, his eyes never leaving mine, even as his rhythm faltered.

When he came, it wasn't with his usual confident control but with a broken sound that might have been my name, might have been a plea.

His body arched beneath me, muscles cording in his neck, tendons standing out in stark relief.

His release spilled over his hand and stomach, his cock pulsing against mine.

The sight of him vulnerable, broken open, trusting me with his pleasure and his pain pushed me over the edge after him.

My orgasm crashed through me like a wave breaking against rocks, blinding in its intensity.

For a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but sensation—the press of his body beneath mine, the slip-slide of our cocks together, the heat of our release mingling between us.

I collapsed against him, burying my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and arousal and something uniquely Luka .

For several moments afterward, we didn't move, didn't speak.

Just breathed together, his hand still gripping my neck, our foreheads still touching.

I could feel him trembling slightly beneath me, aftershocks or emotion, I couldn't tell.

His heart thundered against my chest, gradually slowing to match mine.

Finally, he spoke, his voice raw but steady. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?" I asked, brushing my thumb across his cheekbone.

"Bring me back," he said simply. "When I'm... lost. When everything's too much."

"That's what connection does," I told him. "It anchors us. Reminds us we're not alone."

He nodded, eyes closing briefly. When they opened again, there was clarity there that had been missing before. Resolution. Purpose. The fog of shock had lifted, replaced by something harder, more determined.

"I'm going to kill him," he said, voice eerily calm. "For what he did to Ana. For what he did to me. I'm going to tear him apart."

I didn't argue. Didn't offer platitudes about justice or legal consequences. Some crimes deserved vengeance, not justice.

"We need to find her first," I said instead.

"Yes." His hand finally released my neck. "But she may never be the Ana I knew. You understand that, right? Whatever he did to her... it may not be reversible."

"Then you'll love whoever she is now," I said. "You'll build something new."

He was quiet for a long moment, considering this. "I don't know if I can."

"You can," I said with absolute certainty. "The same way you learned to care for me, when all you were supposed to do was kill me. You adapt. You rebuild. Love finds a way. "

The ice in his eyes didn’t fully thaw, but tiny cracks appeared in his frozen grief.

"We should clean up," I said eventually.

He nodded, but made no move to release me. "Thank you," he said finally. "For the ice. For... bringing me back."

"Always," I promised.

We cleaned up in companionable silence, the rawness of the evening settling into something more manageable, though I noticed Luka's movements remained mechanical, his eyes still occasionally drifting to the middle distance. The tracker blipped on Luka’s phone, a constant reminder of what awaited us.

"We should check in with Jasper tomorrow," Luka said, breaking the silence as he pulled on a clean t-shirt.

"See what intel he has on Prometheus's compound.

Security systems, guard rotations, points of entry.

" His voice remained flat, professional, but I could hear the effort it took to maintain that control.

"And we'll need Lo and Diego," I added. "More firepower."

He nodded, some of the tension returning to his shoulders. "We'll need blueprints. Surveillance first, then a tactical plan. No rushing in. Ana's been there twenty-six years. Another few days won't matter if it means doing this right."

I caught his hand, squeezing gently. "One step at a time. Tonight, you need rest."

As we settled into bed, Luka pulled me against him, his chest to my back, arm wrapped securely around my waist. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, against my spine.

"Vincent?" he murmured, voice already heavy with approaching sleep.

"Hmm?"

"We're going to win this," he said simply. "We're going to free her. "

I covered his hand with mine where it rested on my stomach. "Yes," I agreed. "We are."

As his breathing deepened into sleep, I remained awake, thinking about Ana. About what twenty-six years of manipulation could do to a person's mind. About whether anyone could truly come back from that kind of psychological destruction.

I didn't know. But I did know one thing: if anyone could reach her, could build a bridge to whatever remained of the girl Luka had known, it was the man holding me now.