Page 114 of Ruthless

I tasted salt and realized he was crying. Luka—who had faced death and delivered it forty-eight times without flinching—was silently weeping as he kissed me. His shoulders shook under my hands, his breath hitching against my lips. I pulled him closer, one hand cradling the back of his head, holding him together as something essential finally cracked within him.

"It's okay," I murmured against his temple, though we both knew it wasn't. Nothing about this was okay.

He buried his face in the crook of my neck, arms wrapped around me so tightly it bordered on painful. I didn't complain. I'd bear any discomfort to keep him this close, to delay whatever moment he was preparing for.

"Stay with me," I whispered into his hair. The words carried my unspoken plea:Don't leave. Don't sacrifice yourself. Don't choose vengeance over us.

His body tensed. Instead of answering, he pressed his face harder against my neck, lips moving against my skin. "I love you," he whispered, then again, "I love you," and again, the wordsbecoming a broken mantra, each repetition more fractured than the last. "I love you, I love you..."

The desperation in his voice told me everything his words didn't. This wasn't a promise to stay. This was goodbye.

I tightened my arms around him, as if I could physically anchor him to this moment, to me, to life itself. But I said nothing. What argument could I offer against a decision I could see was already made?

I lay awake long after his breathing deepened, stroking his hair, memorizing the weight of him in my arms. Tomorrow would come regardless of my vigil, bringing whatever storm Luka had sensed on the horizon. For tonight, I could only hold him and pretend that love alone might be enoughto save us both.

Vincent's breathing deepened intosleep's steady rhythm before I slipped away. His arms tightened reflexively, seeking my heat, before he settled back into unconsciousness. My chest hollowed out as I watched him a moment longer, burning into memory the peaceful curve of his mouth, his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, that slight furrow between his brows stubbornly remaining even in sleep.

"Goodbye," I whispered, though he couldn't hear me.

An hour later, the city sprawled beneath me, a glittering tapestry of lights and shadows that stretched to the horizon. From twenty-two stories up, the people below looked like ants. Tiny, insignificant specks going about their meaningless lives, unaware of the monsters that moved among them. Unaware of monsters like me.

Or the bigger monster I'd come to kill.

I crouched at the edge of the office building's roof, the wind sharp and cold against my face. It tugged at my tactical gear, nylon straps creaking against my chest, metal clasps clicking with each powerfulgust. My skin tingled with electricity, every nerve ending alive and singing. The wind carried the taste of freedom and vengeance.

Lightning split the distant sky, briefly illuminating storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Thunder rumbled seconds later, a primal war drum beating in perfect sync with my heart. A storm approached. Fucking fitting.

My heart thundered, not from fear but from raw, primal power. Tonight, I wasn't prey. I wasn't a victim. I was the apex predator, the hunter, the weapon turned against its maker. Adrenaline scorched through my veins like liquid lightning, sharpening my senses until conversations twenty-two stories below reached my ears, until individual lights in buildings a mile away stood out crystal clear. I felt fucking invincible.

Lincoln Mercer's penthouse occupied the top three floors of the most expensive residential building in the city. From my position, I made out sleek minimalist furniture, tasteful art on walls, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a complete view of his domain. Everything exact, controlled, expensive.

Just like the man himself.

Through my scope, I spotted armed guards patrolling the perimeter of the roof garden. Lo's intel proved spot-on, as usual. Two men, moving in predictable patterns, carrying standard-issue Glock 19s in shoulder holsters. Not ferrymen, just regular security. Dangerous enough to normal people, but to me? About as threatening as aggressive kittens. Barely a speedbump on my road to vengeance.

A six-foot gap separated the buildings. Challenging for most, but after twenty-six years of training in urban mobility, just another Tuesday for me.

"I'm coming for you, you fucking monster," I whispered, the words lost to the wind as I secured my equipment and moved back from the edge, calculating my run-up.

Funny how things come full circle.

That recurring nightmare where I was chained to a rock while an eagle devoured my liver repeatedly haunted me since childhood, ever since Prometheus first told me the myth. All these years, I'd thought of myself as Prometheus in that ancient story. I stole fire from the gods, I dared to challenge my place in the world, and for that, I deserved punishment. That's what he told me every time he hurt me. My pain served as a necessary consequence. He really enjoyed his fancy turns of phrase. Fucker.

But tonight, I finally understood the truth.

I wasn't Prometheus in this story.

I was the goddamn eagle.

And I'd come to collect.

I took three deep breaths, my lungs expanding fully. My fingers pressed against the rough concrete edge of the roof, the gritty texture anchoring me to this moment. This glorious, terrible moment where I would finally face the god who had created me, and destroy him.

The world narrowed to a laser focus, colors intensifying until the night pulsed with vibrant energy. The wind's howl faded to a whisper, and the city's chaos below silenced. Nothing existed but the objective.

I launched into a silent sprint and leapt off the edge of the roof.

I soared through darkness, suspended between buildings, between past and future, between death and rebirth. The wind rushed past my face, cold and fierce, whipping tears from the corners of my eyes. My heart stopped beating for that eternal second. I flew, power incarnate, vengeance with wings.

---