Page 144 of Ruthless

"That little furrow between your eyebrows." He crossed the room and perched on the edge of my desk. "Lo's mission?"

I nodded. "Something feels off."

"Lo can handle himself," Vincent reminded me. "And unlike you, he doesn't have a superhuman therapist watching his back."

I smiled, catching his hand. "Superhuman?"

"I put up with you, don't I?" His thumb traced circles on my palm. "That requires special powers."

"I'm a delight," I deadpanned.

"You're something," he agreed, leaning in to kiss me. "Ready to go home? Ana's bringing dinner."

Home. Eight months later, and the word still felt foreign and precious on my tongue. Home had meant something very different in Bosnia—safety, family, belonging—all ripped away when Prometheus took me. Now, against all odds, I had reclaimed each piece.

"Almost done," I said, gesturing to the stack of files. "Just need to sign off on the new training protocols."

Vincent glanced at the documents. "The therapy requirement for all field operatives?"

I nodded. "Mandatory sessions before and after high-risk missions. Some of the old guard are still fighting it."

"Change takes time," Vincent said, a note of pride in his voice. "But look how far you've come."

His work within the Pantheon had exceeded all expectations. Despite initial resistance, Vincent had won over even the most hardened assets with his unique approach to therapy. The results spoke for themselves—improved success rates, fewer psychological breaks, better retention.

"We're making progress," I agreed, signing the final document. "Slowly."

"Slow is better than not at all." Vincent stood, offering his hand. "Now come on. Ana said she has news."

I took his hand, allowing him to pull me from my chair. "What kind of news?"

"The kind she wants to share in person."

Vincent's car waited in the underground garage—the same model he'd driven when we first met, though newer. I'd offered to buy him something faster, more secure, but he'd refused. Some attachments ran deeper than logic.

As we drove toward home, Vincent's hand rested on my thigh, a casual intimacy that still surprised me. The countryside rolled past, summer greenery blurring as the city fell behind us.

"So," he said, squeezing my leg gently, "I have news too."

I turned to him, suddenly alert. "Good or bad?"

"Good. I think." He smiled, eyes on the road. "I've been asked to formalize my training program into a curriculum for the Pantheon. Classes for new therapists within the organization."

"You said yes?" I asked, studying his profile.

"I'm considering it. Two sessions per week, teaching others what I've learned working with assets." He glanced at me. "It would mean less one-on-one therapy time, but potentially greater impact organization-wide."

"You should do it," I said immediately. "If you want to."

Vincent had adapted remarkably to life within the Pantheon, finding ways to apply his expertise that benefited everyone. The chance to formalize his methods into a curriculum, to shape how the organization approached mental health, clearly excited him.

"It's just," he hesitated, "it means becoming even more integrated into the Pantheon. No turning back."

"Having second thoughts?" I asked carefully.

He shook his head firmly. "Not at all. Actually, the opposite. I've realized I belong here as much as I ever belonged in my old practice. Maybe more."

The road curved upward as we approached the hillside where our house perched. He put the car in park once we reached the driveway and turned to me, his expression suddenly serious. "I have one condition."

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