I collapsed onto the cushions, the fever raging through me like wildfire. My last coherent thought was that I needed to tell Vincentabout Frankie's warning, about Rhadamanthys, about the test. About everything.
But darkness claimed me before I could form another thought, dragging me down into feverish oblivion where Prometheus waited with fire for a face and endless questions I couldn't answer.
I woke with ajolt, fingers flying to my throat where Luka's grip had branded me. The bruises throbbed, a physical reminder that I'd literally been in bed with a killer.
The artificial lighting system of the Acropolis was transitioning to its morning cycle, soft illumination gradually brightening through unfamiliar windows. It momentarily disoriented me before reality crashed back. Underground. The Acropolis. The contract. Luka's nightmare.
Turning my head to check the time, I found it was barely six. Old habits die hard, even when hiding from assassins in an underground sanctuary. My body clock was still set to Morning Routine With Plants o'clock.
I sat up groggily, the strange absence of my morning ritual leaving me adrift. No plants to water, no quiet conversations with Ferris Bueller about the weather forecast, no checking Spider Mommy for new babies. My fingers actually twitched with muscle memory, reaching for a misting bottle that wasn't there.
"I hope they're okay," I murmured, picturing Fern Michaels drooping from neglect. The thought of my leafy confidants dying alone created a surprising stab of grief.
With no plants to tend, I found myself automatically redirecting that caregiving energy elsewhere. I slipped quietly from bed and padded to the door, easing it open to peek into the living room. I expected to find Luka awake, perhaps cleaning weapons or creating elaborate tactical plans. The man seemed to thrive on minimal sleep and maximum caffeine.
Instead, I found him asleep on the sofa, one arm dangling toward the floor, face slack. In sleep, his features had softened, dangerous edges smoothed away. Dark lashes rested against cheekbones, stubble shadowing his jaw, the usual intensity replaced by something almost boyish and unguarded.
The butterfly bandages I'd applied stood out starkly against his skin. His broken nose had blossomed into two dramatic black eyes overnight, bruising spreading across his face in watercolor shades of purple and blue.
I caught myself staring longer than professionally appropriate, suddenly very aware of his state of undress. My gaze involuntarily tracked across muscled planes of his chest, down the trail of dark hair leading beneath his waistband. The memory of last night's glimpse flashed unbidden through my mind and my cheeks heated. I forced attention back to his face, embarrassed by my own thoughts. This man was my patient. Sort of. And also my kidnapper. And somehow, despite everything, someone I was developing complicated feelings for.
Wait. Those flushed cheeks... His fever was back.
"Luka?" I called softly, then with more volume when he didn't stir. "Luka."
Nothing. Not even a flicker of those intense blue eyes.
I placed my hand on his forehead and yanked it back, scalded. Heat radiated from his skin like an overheated engine. His chest barely moved with each shallow breath, rapid and uneven, the rhythm of a system in catastrophic failure. The sickly sweet smell of infection hung in the air.
"Shit," I muttered, scanning for yesterday's medical supplies. The first aid kit I'd used was basic at best. Certainly nothing equipped to handle what was clearly a raging infection. This was way beyond the emergency first aid training from my pre-med days, and light-years past what a clinical psychologist should be handling. But here we were.
I shook his shoulder gently, then with increasing urgency. "Luka. Wake up. You need to tell me where to find medicine."
His eyes cracked open, unfocused and fever-glazed. "Jane?" he mumbled, the name slurred and confused.
"No, it's Vincent. You have a fever. Your wounds are infected."
"S'fine," he mumbled, eyes already sliding closed. "Jus' need... sleep it off."
"You can't sleep off an infection this severe," I insisted, worry mounting as his skin radiated heat that seared my palm. My limited medical knowledge was enough to recognize danger. Temperatures this high could cause seizures, brain damage, even death if untreated.
The first aid kit revealed nothing useful, just basic antiseptics and bandages. I needed antibiotics, proper medical equipment. I remembered Luka mentioning asclepiads, some kind of doctors within the Acropolis, but had no idea how to find it or whether I could even access it without him.
For now, I needed to get his temperature down. I went to the kitchen, found a clean dish towel, and soaked it in cold water. Back at the sofa, I placed it on his forehead, but he batted it away.
"Cold," he complained, turning away.
"You have a fever, Luka. We need to cool you down."
He muttered something that sounded like a curse in what I assumed was his native language, but didn't fight this time.
After ten minutes with little improvement, I knew we needed more drastic measures. The compress wasn't enough to combat whatever infection raged through his system. He needed a cool bath to bring his temperature down quickly.
The logistics were daunting. Luka outweighed me by at least thirty pounds of solid muscle, and semi-conscious, he wouldn't be much help. But I couldn't just sit here watching him deteriorate.
"Luka," I said firmly, close to his ear. "I'm going to help you to the bathroom. We need to cool you down. Can you stand?"
His eyes flickered open, struggling to focus. "Bathroom?"
