Page 35 of Ruthless

The eagle ripped out another chunk of liver, and my vision started darkening at edges. But through the haze of pain, I caught a glimpse of weariness in those flame features.

"Fuck this," I snarled through blood-soaked teeth.

Something snapped inside me, and then chains snapped too, metal links shattering like glass. I lunged at Flame-Face with strength that shouldn't have been possible, not with my guts hanging out. The eagle screeched as I shoved it aside, hands reaching for Prometheus's burning face. I wanted to extinguish those flames, tear that smug expression apart with my bare hands.

My fingers plunged into living fire, flesh sizzling on contact. I didn't care. Pain was nothing new. I'd been living with it for twenty-six years.

"LUKA! STOP! PLEASE STOP!"

The voice cut through everything. It wasn't Prometheus, or the eagle, but Vincent. Terrified, desperate Vincent.

Reality crashed back like a wrecking ball to the face. I wasn't chained to a rock. There was no eagle, no flame-faced Prometheus.

I was straddling Vincent in bed, hands wrapped around his throat, fingers pressing into his flesh hard enough to leave marks. His skin burned hot under my palms, not searing like Prometheus's flames, but alive, vulnerable, human. His pulse hammered against my thumbs,each beat a desperate plea I almost silenced forever. Blood trickled from a small scratch where my thumbnail had broken skin. His eyes were wide with terror, body rigid beneath me, hands gripping my wrists, trying to pull me off.

"Luka, it's me," he whispered, voice strained against the pressure of my hands. "It's Vincent. You're safe. We're in the Acropolis."

Horror turned my blood to ice. I jerked hands away, realization of what I'd nearly done hitting with sickening clarity.

"Fuck. FUCK." I scrambled backwards so violently I fell off the bed, hitting the floor hard. "Jesus Christ, Vince."

I pressed against the wall, as far from him as possible, shaking uncontrollably. Sweat beaded on my forehead while my heart thundered violently enough to crack ribs.

Vincent sat up slowly, one hand going to his throat. In the dim light filtering through the blinds, red marks formed where my fingers had been. His hand trembled as he touched the tender skin. His composed expression faltered.

My stomach lurched.

"I'm okay," he said, voice catching before he steadied it. "It's just bruising. You stopped yourself."

I couldn't speak, couldn't move, could barely breathe through the constriction in my chest. I'd almost killed him. The one person I wanted to protect, and I'd nearly strangled him in my sleep.

Vincent moved cautiously to turn on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room with a soft golden light. In the gentle glow, the marks were clearer. They weren't as bad as I'd feared, but the sight of my handprints on his skin made me feel like the monster I was.

I couldn't stay here. Couldn't look at what I'd done. Couldn't face him.

"I can't—" My voice cracked. I bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and locking it with trembling hands.

I slid down to cold marble floor, my back against the door, knees pulled to my chest. My throat burned with the effort of holding back something dangerously close to tears. Professional killers don't cry. Not over nightmares, not over almost murdering someone, not ever. That had been beaten out of me long ago.

But fuck if this didn't feel like crying anyway.

I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes until I saw stars, willing the pressure behind them to subside. My chest felt like it was being crushed, like the eagle was back, perched on my sternum.

"Luka?" Vincent's voice came through the door, gentle and cautious. "Are you alright?"

My laugh escaped, bitter and raw. "Am I alright? Jesus Christ, Vince, I just tried to strangle you in your sleep."

"You were having a nightmare. You didn't know what you were doing."

"That's supposed to make it better?" I pressed my forehead against my knees. "The fact that I'm so fucked up I attack people in my sleep?"

Silence on the other side of the door. Then, softly: "Can I come in?"

"No. Just... go back to bed. Please. I need to be alone."

"I'd rather you weren’t," Vincent replied, voice still steady. "Being alone isn't always the best response to trauma."

"This isn't about my trauma," I snapped, anger easier to grasp than whatever else was threatening to drown me. "This is about me being a fucking danger to you."

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