"They took her," he sobbed, voice suddenly childlike, accent thicker. "I failed... supposed to protect..."
I gently stroked his forehead. "You're safe now."
He quieted under my touch, drifting back into semi-consciousness. I found myself mentally assembling the pieces. Eastern European accent, childhood trauma, sister named Ana, military violence. The clinical psychologist in me constructed a tentative trauma profile even as my hands continued their work.
Time lost meaning as I worked, occasionally draining water and adding fresh cool water to maintain temperature. Luka drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes silent, sometimes mumbling in what must be his mother tongue, occasionally surfacing enough to recognize me before slipping away again.
His fever-soaked skin had taken on a particular metallic and sharp scent, like copper pennies soaking in salt water. It mingled with the antiseptic smell of the bathroom and something uniquely him, something I'd caught hints of when we'd shared the bed. Even ravaged by infection, that underlying scent triggered an inappropriate response in me that I struggled to suppress.
It was during one of these more lucid moments that I found myself tracing edges of a particularly nasty scar.
"Taipei," Luka said suddenly, voice clearer than it had been all morning.
I jerked my hand back as if burned, caught in intimacy I hadn't intended. "What?"
"The scar," he clarified, eyes now focused on my face, though still bright with fever. "Got it in Taipei. Target had a balisong knife. Batshit crazy butterfly blade skills."
"I shouldn't have touched it. I was just..."
"S'okay," he murmured, eyes closing. "It's kinda nice to be touched... and not have it hurt."
My heart squeezed. What kind of awful life had this poor man had that the default was pain?
He opened his eyes.
Our gazes locked, and something shifted in the space between us. Here was Luka, stripped of his usual bravado and innuendo, allowing me to see his most vulnerable self, both physically and emotionally. And here I was, choosing to care for him despite knowing what he was, what he'd done, the danger he represented.
The moment stretched.
Then came a knock at the door, sharp and authoritative, cutting through the silence like a gunshot.
Luka's entire body tensed instantly, fever forgotten as survival instinct kicked in. He attempted to rise from the tub, but his weakened state betrayed him, sending him slumping back into the water.
"Don't answer it," he whispered.
Another knock, this one demanding. Then a voice through the door. "I know you're in there, Luka. We need to talk."
The little color fever hadn't already stolen from Luka's face vanished. His body went rigid, instinctive terror overriding even his infection.
"Prometheus," he breathed, the name dripping with such dread my skin prickled in response.
"Who's that?" I whispered, though some primal part of me already knew the answer.
Luka's eyes locked onto mine, fever-bright and haunted. "My boss." A pause. "And the man who put the hit out on you."
"Don't answer," I repeated,struggling to sit up in the tub, water sloshing against porcelain. My limbs felt filled with concrete, vision swimming with fever. Perfect fucking timing. The universe really outdid itself this time. The one moment I needed to be at my deadliest, and I couldn't even lift my head without the room spinning like I was on a carnival ride designed by sadists.
The knocking stopped, followed by the distinct sound of a key turning in a lock.
"He has override access," I whispered, panic rising. "Get out of here. Lock the door."
Vincent shook his head, stubborn as ever. "This is neutral ground. You said no business can be conducted here."
"He won't break that rule," I replied, voice steadier. "But he doesn't need violence to be dangerous. Even here." I finally managed to brace against the tub's edge, trying to appear less vulnerable than I felt.
The bathroom door swung open without warning, and there he stood.
Have you ever been in the presence of a predator so perfectly evolved that every instinct screams danger even when it's completely still? That's Prometheus. Six foot two of lean, coiled power in impeccable charcoal Armani. Eyes cold enough to freeze hellfire. Not handsome, not ugly, just... efficient. Like his face had been designed by an algorithm programmed to create the perfect balance between authority and menace.
