I remembered a time, years ago, when words like these would've made my chest swell with pride. When I'd have done anything to earn that approving tone, that gentle touch. There was a period in my late teens when hero worship twisted into something more confusing—a desperate yearning I'd mistaken for love. Not the love of a son for a father, but something more consuming. More obsessive. Then came those six nights. Six distinct memories branded into me like the metal now adorning my body, each piercing a reclamation of what he'd taken. But even that hadn't been enough to free me. I wasn't capable of real love anymore. Whatever he'd done had broken that part for good.
"Don't," I said, finally finding the strength to pull away. The word came out as a croak. "Don't pretend you care."
My hand trembled violently as I raised it between us, a feeble barrier that would do nothing if he chose to cross it.
"But I do care," he replied, smoothly transitioning to stroking my hair like I was a child. "Eight million dollars' worth of care, to be precise. You think I'd invest that much in something I didn't value deeply?"
The moment Prometheus's fingers touched my hair, I sank.
Reality receded, sounds becoming muffled, like being underwater. I watched from somewhere far away as my body remained in the tub, responding to commands that didn't reach my consciousness. My lips moved. Words came out. But I wasn't the one speaking.
The bathroom stretched into an endless void, Prometheus became a distant figure on the other side of an invisible barrier. I screamed, but no sound emerged. Pounded against the glass walls of my mind, but my physical body remained docile, compliant.
Time fragmented. Prometheus saying something. My head nodding. Water temperature changing. My mouth forming words I couldn't hear. Everything happening felt far removed, like watching security footage of someone wearing my face.
The only real thing was the cold terror pooling in my chest, spreading outward until even that became distant, unimportant. The numbness was safer. The void, protective.
I floated in the darkness, watching as the stranger in my body tilted his head to expose his throat, muscles yielding automatically to touches that didn't register as sensation, just as distant visual input from another reality.
My pupils dilated. I could feel it happening, the strange sensation of more light suddenly flooding in as my body prepared for fight or flight. Except I could do neither. My jaw clenched so hard I could hear my teeth grinding.
I barked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "I'm just a fucking weapon to you. An investment. Not a person."
"You're both," he countered, fingers still threading through my hair. "My most successful project and greatest disappointment. Do youknow how much potential you still have? How much more you could become if you'd just let me guide you? If you'd trust me to take care of you, like you once did?"
My body betrayed me with another violent shiver, and Prometheus tsked softly, as if genuinely concerned. He reached into the water without hesitation, testing the temperature.
"Cold," he observed, standing to adjust the faucet. "You'll make yourself worse sitting in this."
Hot water began filling the tub again, steam rising. Prometheus returned to his position, watching the color return to my skin with the warm water. The intimacy of it all was suffocating. I sat naked and vulnerable while he took care of me, just as when I was a child, beaten and bloody from training with Hector. And later, when I was no longer a child but still under his control, his "care" had taken other dimensions that left me both devoted and disgusted.
"Why now?" he asked, voice soft with what sounded like genuine curiosity. "After all these years, all the contracts, what makes this one different?" His hand rested on my thigh beneath the water, close enough to my groin to be a reminder of power and ownership, but not quite crossing the final line.
My reflexes betrayed me again. At his touch on my thigh, my legs instinctively moved farther apart, a response programmed through years of training to grant whatever access he desired. The moment I realized what I'd done, nausea crashed over me in a sickening wave. I managed to shift my leg slightly, creating the barest hint of resistance against his hand.
I stared at the rising water, unable to meet his eyes. When I tried speaking, my mouth had gone so dry my tongue stuck to the roof. I had to swallow twice before forming words. "You know why."
"The therapist? He's just a man. Replaceable. Forgettable." Prometheus's hand returned to my hair, stroking it back from my face with the gentle possessiveness that always left me confused about where I stood. "Is it a physical connection you're seeking? I can arrange that. Men who understand what you need without all the... complications. Or you could return to me. We were good together once, weren't we?"
Cold sweat erupted across my skin despite the warm water, my muscles spasming in waves of revulsion that started at my neck and rippled down to my toes, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I could feel phantom hands on my skin, the memory of it so real I had to look down to prove he wasn't touching me there.
"It's not just physical," I said, the words scraping from my throat. Vincent had shown me something different, something genuine. The way he looked at me like I was a person, not a weapon or toy. I was terrified by how much I wanted that. How much I needed it.
"Then what? Help me understand, son."
The endearment hit hard. He so rarely used it, saved for moments of manipulation when he knew I was the weakest. And for those six nights when he'd crossed lines that never should have been crossed. And god help me, even now, even knowing what he was doing, some broken part of me responded.
A rush of warmth flooded my face along with a dizzying mix revulsion of yearning, hatred and need, all tangled in my body's responses.
"He sees me," I whispered, the words escaping before I could stop them. "He's seen the truth of what I am and hasn't run away."
Prometheus's expression hardened for a fraction of a second before melting into something almost pitying. He cupped my face in his palm, thumb stroking my cheek with falsetenderness.
"They always run, Luka. As soon as they truly see what you are, they all run. Your therapist will be no different. He's just waiting for his chance." His fingers tightened slightly on my face. "No one understands you like I do. I've known you since the beginning, shaped you, watched you grow. I'm the only one who's seen everything you've done and stayed. Only I can truly love what you are."
My eyes fluttered closed, the instantaneous surrender terrifying me. That single gesture revealed how deeply he still controlled me. Despite everything, part of me still craved his approval, his touch, his guidance.
The worst part was, part of me believed him. Part of me still yearned for his approval, still found comfort in his touch, even as another part recoiled. The cognitive dissonance was dizzying, especially through the fever haze.
