"Like us," Luka agreed, with a nod.
"How many people have you killed?" The question escaped before I could stop it and I immediately regretted asking.
"Forty-seven," he answered without hesitation. "Forty-eight if you count Hector."
Forty-eight lives ended by the hands I was bandaging. It should have repulsed me. Should have sent me running for the door and as far from this beautiful killer as I could get. Instead, I finished wrapping his knuckles in silence, hyperaware of each brush of skin against skin, even through latex.
"Does it bother you?" he asked, voice uncharacteristically quiet. "What I am?"
I looked up and caught something unexpected in his expression. Not the arrogance or flirtation I'd come to expect, but genuine vulnerability. My answer mattered to him.
"Yes," I said honestly. "But not enough to stop me from helping you. Not enough to make me wish you'd completed your contract." The truth surprised even me as it left my lips.
"Why?" The question hung between us, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex.
The answer twisted uncomfortably in my chest. I'd always been drawn to dangerous men, had spent years in therapy trying to break the pattern. There was Bobby, the amateur boxer whose violent outbursts I'd excused as passion until he'd put his fist through my wall. Max, whose coldness I'd mistaken for strength until he'd choked me during sex without warning. Devon, whose criminal connections I'd ignored until the police questioned me during a homicide investigation.
Todd had been my attempt at safe, predictable, and boring. And yet here I was, heart racing from the proximity of the most dangerous man I'd ever encountered.
"Because you saved my life," I finally said, the words true but incomplete. I met his gaze squarely, refusing to hide behind psychological jargon. "And because apparently I have a death wish when it comes to men. You're just the most literal manifestation of that pattern."
Honesty hung in the air between us, sharp and dangerous. Luka's gaze dropped to my mouth for a heartbeat too long before snapping back up.
"That's quite an admission from a therapist," he said, voice husky.
"I never claimed to be good at taking my own advice."
I settled Luka on the couch and placed a cool cloth on his forehead before investigating the kitchen. While rummaging through the surprisingly well-stocked refrigerator, I tried to make sense of our situation. Maybe someone from my client list was connected to this Pantheon. The thought sent a chill through me.
"Hungry?" I asked, turning to find Luka watching me through half-lidded eyes.
"Starving."
I pulled several vegetables from the refrigerator, and Luka's expression shifted to pure horror.
"Oh God, you're one of those people," he groaned, eyeing the broccoli in my hand like it was radioactive. "The ones who think food should be green."
"It's called nutrition," I replied, deliberately slicing the broccoli into tiny pieces. "And yes, I'm one of those radical extremists who believes in the food pyramid."
“Vegetables are what prey eats,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “Except for potatoes. Those get a pass because they become fries.”
After a simple meal that Luka picked at like a suspicious child, I helped him back to the couch. His fever had climbed higher, skin flushed with alarming heat. He leaned against me, uncharacteristically pliant, his weight shifting against my side as we navigated through the apartment. The solid press of his fevered body against mine sent conflicting signals racing through my nervous system. I tried to ignore them as I dug through the first aid kit again in search of something to take down his fever. Luka swallowed the pills with only mild annoyance and stretched out on the couch for a nap.
Once he was settled, I escaped to the bathroom for a desperately needed shower. When I returned to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, I found it empty. I slipped into borrowed clothes and slid between cool sheets, muscles aching from the day's impossible tension.
I'd just begun drifting into that hazy pre-sleep state when the door creaked open. My eyes snapped open to see Luka framed in the doorway, steam curling around him from his own shower. A towel hung dangerously low on his hips, water droplets tracing slow paths down the defined muscles of his abdomen. The feverish flush had receded slightly. At least the pills were working.
Before I could form a coherent thought, he dropped the towel completely.
My brain short-circuited. For one humiliating moment, I couldn't look away. He was all lean muscle and dangerous grace, scars mapping a violent history across his skin. And there, impossible to ignore, was a ladder of metal bars decorating the underside of his very impressive cock.
"My eyes are up here, Vince," Luka purred. "Though I don't mind if you want to take notes for future reference."
Heat rushed to my face with such intensity I could feel my pulse throbbing in my temples. I dragged my gaze upward with tremendous effort, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.
"Interesting," I said, deliberately clinical as I let my gaze drop once more, using professional distance as armor. "I’ve never seen that before. Did you do it yourself?"
His eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise flickering across his face before his usual smirk returned. "Professional. I may be reckless, but I draw the line at DIY genital modification."
