Page 34 of Ruthless

Something twisted in my chest, sharp and sweet and painful all at once. I wanted to respond, but what could I possibly say to that?

"Go to sleep, doc," he said, voice rough with emotion or fever or both. "Tomorrow will be complicated enough without sleep deprivation."

I closed my eyes, knowing he was right, but certain sleep would elude me. Tomorrow loomed with unanswered questions. Who wanted me dead? Why was I worth upending Luka's entire existence? And what was this connection between us that defied all rational explanation?

As consciousness began slipping away, one last thought surfaced: in all my years of therapy, both receiving and providing, I'd never encountered anything that explained what was happening betweenus. Perhaps some things existed beyond psychological categorization, beyond clinical understanding.

Maybe some connections simply were, defying explanation like gravity or magnetism.

And perhaps that was the most terrifying thoughtof all.

Fuck me, being chainedto a rock sucked ass.

That was my first coherent thought as I struggled against restraints that weren't rope or metal, but something alive. They were goddamn living shackles that tightened like pythons whenever I fought them, squeezing until my bones creaked. Because regular chains would be too fucking pedestrian for my premium nightmare package.

The sky above wasn't a sky at all, just an endless void with pinpricks of flame that made me think of cigarette burns in black velvet. Classy decor, really top-tier hellscape design.

I'd had this dream before. The greatest hits of Luka's Fucked-Up Psyche, volume twelve.

Here came the eagle, right on schedule. Not your standard National Geographic bird, but some Lovecraftian nightmare with feathers like oil slicks and a beak designed by the same sadistic fuck who created medieval torture devices. Its eyes, though… Those were the worst part. Cold, intelligent, and completely devoid of anything resembling mercy or doubt. Just absolute fucking certainty.

"Well, aren't you a pretty bird," I said, or tried to say. My voice came out as a wet gurgle, like I was already drowning in my own blood. Fan-fucking-tastic.

The eagle landed on my chest with the approximate weight of a Toyota Corolla. Its talons punctured skin like it had memorized an anatomical chart of exactly where to cause maximum pain without hitting anything immediately fatal. Overachiever.

When it started cutting into me, I realized I'd been an idiot to think I remembered what pain felt like. This wasn't pain. This was existence becoming agony, every cell in my body simultaneously screaming in a language made of pure suffering. My nerves ignited, skin peeling back in wet ribbons while my blood hissed against the creature's molten beak.

I felt its beak inside me, sorting through internal organs like it was shopping at a particularly wet farmer's market. When it found my liver, I knew. Not because I could see—I couldn't lift my head—but because it felt like someone had found my soul and decided to floss with it.

The eagle pulled my liver out, still attached to whatever the fuck keeps livers attached to people. It didn't just yank it out like pulling a prize from a cereal box. No, it took its sweet time, making sure I felt every severed connection, every snapped vessel. The organ pulsed in its beak, still alive, still mine, even as it was being removed from where organs are generally supposed to remain.

And then it started eating. Not quickly, not mercifully, but with the pace of someone savoring an expensive meal they've been looking forward to all day. Each bite sent fresh waves of agony through me. I tried to scream but all that came out was blood, running down my chin and neck in warm rivulets.

"Pathetic."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. I managed to turn my head enough to see him approaching. Prometheus. Not the toga-wearing mythological figure from storybooks, but something much worse—a man in an impeccable suit that made my entire wardrobe look like it came from a dumpster behind Goodwill. But his face... Jesus fucking Christ, his face was made of actual fire, features constantly shifting and reforming in dancing flames, eyes like white-hot coals that burned holes right through whatever they looked at.

"This the part where you monologue?" I managed to rasp, blood bubbling between my lips. Even in a nightmare, I couldn't shut my fucking mouth.

The flame-face tilted, almost curious. "You think this is punishment? It isn't. It's preparation."

The eagle finished its snack, my liver now completely consumed. I felt hollow, emptied out in the most literal way possible. But then came the worst part. I could feel my liver growing back. Cells multiplying, tissue regenerating, all so it could happen again. The ultimate cosmic "fuck you."

"Preparation for what?" I asked, genuinely curious despite the whole tortured-for-eternity situation.

"For what comes next," Flame-Face said, like that was any kind of useful answer.

The eagle turned its attention back to my newly regrown liver, beak gleaming with my blood.

"Your loyalties have shifted," Prometheus said, flames dancing across his features. "The rules of the game are changing. Evolution always comes with... sacrifice."

The eagle tore into me again, and this time the pain was somehow worse, like my nerves had regenerated with extra sensitivity just for shits and giggles.

"That's not how this works," I ground out through clenched teeth slick with blood. "I'm not a hero. I'm just the asshole who—"

"Who turned on his masters," Prometheus finished, flames rippling higher across his face. "Who broke the contract."

There was something in his fiery voice I didn't expect. Not anger, not disappointment. Something almost like... respect?

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