I set the ear protection down, giving him my full attention. "Of course."
"Do you actually want to be with me?" The question came out matter-of-fact, though I could see the tension in his jaw, the slight pulse visible at his temple. His eyes, usually so carefully guarded, held a nakedness that made my chest ache. "Sexually, I mean. It's fine if you don't. I just need to know where we stand."
"I... Ofcourse I do," I said, surprised he could doubt it after what we'd shared last night.
"Then why didn't you come after me this morning when I pulled away?" His voice remained steady, but his hands had curled into loose fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension. The question hung between us, heavy with unspoken hurt.
The question hit me like a revelation. Of course. How had I missed it? He'd pulled away, expecting me to pursue him, to prove I actually wanted him. And I, thinking I was being respectful, had given him exactly what he feared most—confirmation that I'd walk away at the first sign of difficulty.
God, I was an idiot. I could recognize this pattern in any of my patients—the testing, the need for reassurance disguised as rejection—but somehow I'd completely missed it with Luka. Maybe because I was too close, too emotionally invested to see the classic avoidant attachment patterns right in front of me.
"Because I thought that's what you wanted," I said quietly. "I thought you regretted being vulnerable last night and needed space. I was trying to respect your boundaries."
"You thought I was just using it as a distraction, right? As some kind of fucked-up coping mechanism." He took a step closer, his voice dropping lower. "You're treating me like a patient, Vincent. Like something broken that needs to be fixed."
"You got it all wrong," he continued, running a hand roughly through his hair. "When I reach for you and you don't reach back, it feels like I'm not worth fighting for. Sex isn't just sex for me. It's the only time I get to feel like someone actually wants me. Really wants me, not just what I can do for them. Everyone else in my life only wants what I can give them. What I can do? Kill for them, spy for them, betheir perfect fucking weapon. No one has ever just wanted me." His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "Just Luka."
The accuracy of his words left me speechless. He paced a few steps away, then turned back, something wild and vulnerable in his eyes.
"You read my fucking file. You know I don't do this... this talking about feelings crap." He gestured sharply between us. "But I'm trying here, so just... just listen, okay?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He blew out a harsh breath and ran both hands through his hair.
"When I was eighteen, Prometheus took me to Milan." Luka's voice flattened, his eyes focusing somewhere beyond the shooting range walls. "Said I was ready. Not just for solo missions."
He stopped, jaw muscles bunching beneath his skin. His fingers twitched toward a weapon that wasn't there, a reflex so ingrained he probably didn't even notice it. I watched a fine tremor start in his hands, spreading upward until his shoulders quivered.
"I spent six nights in that hotel suite." Each word emerged precise, clinical. "Six nights of champagne that tasted strange. Six nights where I couldn't quite coordinate my limbs properly. Six nights of…"
My stomach dropped, acid rising in my throat as the implications crystallized. Sweat trickled down my spine despite the room's perfect temperature.
"He fucked me," Luka said, the words dropping between us like spent shell casings. "And the worst part? I thought I wanted it. Thought I was special. Thought it was love."
He shook his head and looked down at his hands. They were steady now, perfectly controlled, but his knuckles had gone white. A muscle jumped in his throat as he swallowed hard. "I built my entire identity around it. Being chosen. Being special to him. But it wasn't love. It wasn't even desire. It was just... control. And now, with you... I don'tknow how to do this. Whatever this is between us feels nothing like what I had with him. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't feel like I'm being used. And that scares the shit out of me, because I don't know if I can trust it."
My throat constricted. The shooting range seemed to shrink around us, the walls closing in as the implications of his words registered. I fought to keep my breathing even, to maintain a steady presence for him. Not as his therapist, but as someone who cared deeply, someone who wanted to understand.
He let out a bitter laugh. "Back then, I was actually... proud. Like I was fucking special. The North American Director himself, choosing me. Like it was some achievement to lose my virginity to the most powerful man in the organization."
The room tilted, my vision narrowing as I forced myself to stay present. I gripped the counter edge behind me, needing the physical anchor as waves of nausea threatened to overwhelm me. I wanted to scream, to break something, to find this Prometheus and tear him apart. The violence of my own thoughts shocked me.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, tendons standing out like cables beneath his skin. "I was always watching him, always trying to please him. Looking for his approval. And, I mean, he wasn't wrong. He was like a literal god to me and I was…" He waved dismissively. "I was just Luka. Who the fuck would want that, right? And I thought… I thought…"
His eyes shimmered before he slammed his lids shut and turned away. When he spoke again, his voice was strained and small. "Why would anyone ever want me after that? After he... used me and tossed me aside? I felt..." He struggled for words, jaw working. "Contaminated. Like he'd marked me from the inside where no one could see, but everyone would know."
One hand moved unconsciously to his abdomen, fingers splayed across the muscle there as if protecting something beneath. "He told me afterward that no one else would ever truly want me. That I was ruined for normal people. Too twisted, too broken. That only he could appreciate what I'd become."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "And the sick part? I believed him. For years, I believed him. Every hookup, every meaningless fuck was just proving him right. That I wasn't worth staying for. That I wasn't worth fighting for."
My chest ached as if something physical had broken open inside me, sharp edges digging into soft tissue. The pure calculation of the psychological prison Prometheus had built for him—was breathtaking in its cruelty.
My chest felt too tight, each breath a deliberate act as I listened. The taste of bile rose in my throat, and I had to consciously relax my jaw, which had clenched so hard my teeth ached. I needed to be present for him, to bear witness without falling apart. My hands trembled slightly, and I clasped them together to still them.
"It wasn't assault," he said with a harsh laugh that held no humor. "I didn't fight back. I didn't say no. Besides, he said it was part of my training. Building trust or some shit. That he loved me in his way."
I couldn't stay silent any longer. "Luka," I said gently, keeping my voice steady despite the rage churning inside me. "You were drugged. You couldn't consent. That's the definition of assault."
