Lo's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, wide with disbelief. "You actually did it? You broke through the conditioning?"
I looked down at my hands, still trembling with adrenaline. "Not completely. But enough to try."
"He's injured?" Diego asked.
"Head wound. Not fatal. But he'll be out of commission for a while."
Vincent's hand found mine in the backseat, squeezing hard enough to hurt. "You left Ana," he said quietly. Not an accusation. An acknowledgment of the impossible choice I'd made. His thumb traced small circles against my bloody knuckles.
"I couldn't take her," I replied, acid burning up my throat. "Not while bullets flew. Not when she cowered from me like I was the monster and he was her savior. Not when dragging her away would only confirm everything he's programmed her to fear."
Vincent shifted closer, the heat of his thigh against mine sending entirely inappropriate signals through my adrenaline-soaked body. Danger and desire had always tangled inside me, but with Vincent, they became indistinguishable. Both were equally intoxicating, both equally necessary.
"But you will go back for her," Vincent said. Not a question. A certainty.
His eyes darkened as they met mine, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of brown remained. I recognized that look now. It was the same dangerous attraction that had drawn him to me from the beginning. The therapist who should run from violence but instead ran toward it. Toward me.
"Yes," I said, something hardening inside me. And this time, Prometheus won't stop me."
I wasn’t Prometheus's weapon anymore, but I wasn’t the broken boy from Bosnia either. I was something new. Something forged in the fire of my own rage and the coolingtouch of Vincent's love.
The Acropolis closed aroundus 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."
