"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."
