"Morning," he murmured, voice sleep-rough.
I couldn't bear it. Couldn't stand the tenderness in his gaze when I knew—knew—it wouldn't last. Once we survived this, once Vincent no longer needed a human shield, he'd retreat to his safe, ethical life of healing and forget the killer who'd temporarily fascinated him.
"Morning," I replied, voice flat.
I untangled myself from his arms, creating cold space between us. My muscles tensed as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, spine rigid. In my peripheral vision, I caught the flicker of confusion that crossed Vincent's face, the slight furrowing of his brow.
"I should get up," I said, reaching for sweatpants to hide the trembling in my hands. "Need coffee."
The words came out clipped, professional. The voice I used for debriefs after successful missions, not for mornings after spilling my fucking soul to someone. Vincent's face fell.
"Sure," he replied carefully. "I'll be out in a minute."
I escaped to the kitchen, where I gripped the counter hard enough to whiten my knuckles, head hanging between my shoulders. My chest physically ached, like someone had carved out something vital with a rusty spoon and left the wound raw and festering.
"We can fake it with the best of them, can't we, Luka?"Prometheus had once told me after watching me charm information from a target."But people like us can never truly connect. That's what makes us special."
The coffee maker gurgled and hissed, filling the apartment with a rich aroma that couldn't mask the smell of my own fear. I'd survived torture, bullets, and enough knife wounds to qualify as a human pincushion, but my own emotional diarrhea might actually kill me.
By the time Vincent joined me twenty minutes later, I'd rebuilt enough walls to function. He'd showered, his hair still damp, wearing borrowed sweatpants that hung low on his hips. The bruises I'd left on his neck last night stood out in stark purple against his skin.
I handed him coffee without meeting his eyes. His confusion was palpable, filling the space between us like smoke.
"Sleep okay?" Vincent asked, attempting a casual tone that didn't quite hide his concern.
My skin prickled. He was analyzing me, using those therapist skills to dissect my withdrawal, and I hated being so fucking transparent.
"Fine," I snapped, the word sharp enough to cut.
Vincent's eyes searched mine, confusion edged with determination. "Luka, about last night—"
"It's fine," I cut him off. If he made me talk about it, I'd drown. " Your patient's funeral is tomorrow, and we need a plan."
"Michael." Vincent's voice softened, pain etching lines around his eyes. "His name was Michael."
The genuine grief in his expression made me feel like shit. After seeing Michael's body hanging from that shower rod and making plans for the funeral at our meeting with Jasper and Diego, Vincent was still processing his patient's murder. That fundamental decency was exactly why Prometheus saw him as such a threat, and exactly what drew me to him in the first place.
It was also why he'd eventually leave. Good men didn't stay with killers once the danger passed. Vincent might think he wanted me now, when adrenaline and fear scrambled his judgment, but after? When normal life resumed?
My eyes caught on his lips as he sipped his coffee, remembering how they'd felt against mine last night, how they'd whispered acceptance against my skin when I'd finally broken open. The memory sent heat spiraling through me, dangerous and unwanted.
“So what’s on the agenda today?” he asked.
"Lo’s supposed to come over," I replied, forcing my gaze away. "He should have more detailed information on what we can expect at the funeral. He was doing recon last night.”
“And after?”
I shrugged. “We survive the funeral, gather intel on Prometheus's current activities, and use that to build our next move. It's not much, but it's a start."
"I meant after that," Vincent said quietly. "After the funeral, after Prometheus... if we survive all this, what then?"
After. As if there could be an after for someone like me.
"Let's focus on surviving first."
Before Vincent could press further, the suite's door burst open without warning. I jumped to my feet instantly, knife in hand, before recognizing the intruder.
"Morning, lovebirds!" Lo sang out, sauntering in, arms full of shopping bags. "I come bearing gifts, news, and designer coffee that will change your life."
