But it wasn't the same. Without Vincent's actual plants, without his gentle morning ritual, it was just a grown man playing with candy at three in the morning. I popped Jeremy in my mouth, biting down harder than necessary. The artificial cherry flavor burst against my tongue, too sweet and somehow exactly what I needed.
"Sorry for eating you, Jeremy," I told the remaining gummy worms. "But Vincent's been a bad influence on me. Got me feeling guilty about murdering things. Even candy."
I arranged the remaining worms in various positions, creating a ridiculous soap opera. "No, Fern Michaels! Don't fall for Richard's lies! He's sleeping with Vivian on the side!" I moved the worms around, making them argue in increasingly dramatic voices. "He only wants you for your chlorophyll!"
My phone was still in my pocket—one of many burners I'd picked up since arriving. I pulled it out, thumb hovering over the browser. What I needed was something to occupy my mind, something complex enough to drown out Prometheus's voice.
I typed "knife maintenance techniques" into the search bar, then immediately deleted it. The last thing I needed was more violence, more death. After a moment's hesitation, I typed "how to care for orchids" instead.
Jane would have laughed herself sick seeing me study plant care at three in the morning. "Expanding your skill set, Luka?" she would have asked, that rare smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. Jane never questioned my eccentricities, just accepted them as part of who I was beyond the killing machine Prometheus had created.
I scrolled through care instructions, memorizing light requirements and watering schedules like they were extractioncoordinates. Humidity levels. Fertilizer ratios. Soil composition. The specificity soothed something in me, gave me purpose beyond survival.
"Vincent Matthews, what the fuck have you done to me? Forty-eight confirmed kills, and here I am learning how to make baby plants."
I glanced toward Vincent's door, still cracked open. He'd extended that invitation knowingly accepting what I was, what I'd done. Not just the killing, but the immediate, visceral danger I'd proven myself to be. And yet.
I thought of Vincent's steady hands tending my wounds, his calm voice cutting through my panic. The way he'd looked at me not with fear or disgust, but with something almost like understanding.
I abandoned the article on orchid propagation, my mind too scattered to focus. The gummy worms weren't working either. I needed... I didn't know what I needed.
My eyes landed on Vincent's abandoned mug on the counter. Before I could think better of it, I was on my feet, padding silently to the kitchen. I picked up the mug, noting the faint stain of tea on the rim where his mouth had been.
"You're losing it," I told myself, but still brought the mug to the sink, washing it carefully. I could at least make sure he had a clean mug for morning. A stupid, small gesture that meant nothing and everything.
The cut on my cheek throbbed as I bent over the sink, a sharp reminder of the violence that had brought us here. When I touched it gently, the skin felt hot, inflamed despite Vincent's careful attention. My body's rebellion against the damage I'd put it through.
I dried the mug and set it precisely where Vincent liked it, handle turned just so. These tiny details I'd absorbed during my surveillance now felt like precious knowledge instead of intel for a kill.
Back on the couch, I pulled out my phone again, this time searching for "apartment garden ideas." If we ever got out of here—when we got out of here—Vincent would need to rebuild. His plants had been casualties of my world colliding with his. The least I could do was help him start over.
"Look at you," I muttered to myself. "Big bad assassin googling proper humidity levels for tropical plants at three in the morning. What's next? Pinterest boards for cozy reading nooks? Etsy shopping for macramé plant hangers?"
But the detailed instructions soothed something in me, gave me purpose beyond survival. A future worth fighting for, even if it was just helping Vincent resurrect Fern Michaels and that judgmental prick Jeremy.
I scrolled through images of herbs growing in kitchen windows, succulents arranged on floating shelves, finding myself saving links with notes. "This one's like Fern Michaels." "Jeremy would hate being next to this." I built something in my mind that was the opposite of destruction.
A soft sound from Vincent's room made me freeze. I found myself on my feet before I'd made the conscious decision to move, drawn to that cracked door. Just a peek. Just to make sure he was okay.
I stopped at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. Through the gap, I could see him sleeping, face peaceful in the dim light. The bruises on his throat were already darkening but his breathing was deep and even. Trusting. Safe.
I wanted to go to him so badly. I ached to curl around him and prove I could touch without hurting, protect without destroying. ButI forced myself back to the couch, each step away feeling like tearing off skin.
"What are you doing, Luka?"
This time the voice wasn't Prometheus but my own, tinged with bewilderment. Planning gardens. Reading philosophy. Playing with candy. Who was this person I was becoming?
Not the weapon Prometheus had forged. Not the perfect killer he'd trained.
Just a man who couldn't sleep, trying to be better than his worst impulses. Trying to deserve the trust of someone who saw past the blood on his hands.
The clock showed 4:47 AM. Still hours before Vincent would wake, before I'd have to pretend I'd slept, pretend I was stable enough to protect him instead of being the thing he needed protection from.
My phone buzzed, screen illuminating. Finally, an answer from Frankie. I’d texted him before going to bed, just in case he saw it overnight. Apparently, he had.
NEED TO TALK. AVGOSPITO. 30 MIN. COME ALONE.
I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Avgospito was the greasy spoon diner tucked in the far corner of the Acropolis. The Pantheon's version of a Waffle House, complete with sticky menus and waitresses who called everyone "honey" regardless of whether they'd killed ten people or a hundred.
