Page 44 of Ruthless

And there I was, naked as the day I was born, sitting in lukewarm bathwater with fever sweat beading on my forehead and Vincent kneeling beside me like we were performing some bizarre baptism. 'Cleanse me of my sins, Father Matthews?' probably wasn't appropriate given the circumstances. If I weren't potentially about to die, the absurdity might have been hilarious.

"Luka," Prometheus said. He didn't raise his voice. He never had to. "You appear to be unwell."

The understatement of the fucking century.

Vincent moved slightly, positioning himself between me and the door.

"No!" I snarled, lunging upward with a violent splash. Water cascaded over the sides as I tried getting between Vincent and Prometheus, naked body shaking with fever and rage. "Don't you fucking touch him!"

The bathroom tilted. My legs gave out completely mid-lunge, sending me crashing painfully against the tub's edge. I would have collapsed to the floor if Vincent hadn't caught me.

"Easy," he whispered, easing me back into the water. "You can't even stand."

I remained half-risen, one trembling arm braced against the porcelain, refusing to back down despite my pathetic state.Prometheus observed the display like a scientist, noting an unexpected reaction in a lab experiment.

"Dr. Matthews," Prometheus acknowledged, eyes sliding from me to Vincent. "A pleasure to finally meet you. You've caused quite a stir in our organization."

I wanted to lunge again, somehow place myself between them, but my body wouldn't cooperate. The room was spinning slowly, colors bleeding at the edges. Fuck, I was in worse shape than I'd thought.

"If you're here to hurt him—" Vincent started, hand still steadying me as I remained poised to attack despite my weakness.

"I'm here to have a conversation with my employee," Prometheus said, gaze returning to me with a flicker of something almost like amusement at my protective display. "A private one."

"Go," I rasped at Vincent, trying to push him away with trembling hands. "Get out of here. Now." The last thing I wanted was him witnessing this, exposed to Prometheus and the darkness he represented.

"I'm not leaving." Vincent ignored my attempt to push him away, hand firm on my shoulder.

"Goddammit, Vincent! Please. Just go."

Vincent's eyes met mine, hurt flashing across his features. For a moment, I thought he'd continue refusing, but then his expression shifted to something more resigned. He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before standing.

"I'll be right outside," he said softly, then turned to Prometheus with barely contained anger. "If anything happens to him—"

"Dr. Matthews, this is a conversation, not an execution. The rules of the Acropolis apply to everyone, even me."

Vincent hesitated one more second, eyes finding mine again. I gave a short nod. He stepped out, closing the door with a quiet click.

The moment the door closed, something shifted in Prometheus's demeanor. The cold professional mask softened, and he moved closer to the tub.

"Look at you," he said, voice taking on a warmer, more intimate tone that made my stomach clench. "My proudest creation, reduced to this."

Something twisted painfully in my chest at the disappointment in his voice. knowing better, I felt the familiar, sickening rush of shame. The child in me, who'd spent years desperate for this man's approval, withered under his gaze. Twenty-six years of conditioning doesn't break easily, even when you know it's manipulation.

"I'm sorry," the words slipped out before I could stop them, an automatic response embedded so deeply I couldn't prevent it. I immediately hated myself for the instinctive need to regain his approval.

Prometheus perched casually on the tub's edge, unconcerned about his immaculate suit. He reached for the washcloth Vincent had abandoned, dipping it into the water and wringing it out. "Always pushing yourself too hard. You never did know when to stop."

I froze, skin crawling as he started to wash my chest. Yet I was unable to pull away. My muscles locked completely, going rigid beneath his touch. The way he handled my body was a disturbing reminder of his perception of ownership. The washcloth moved down my arm, his other hand occasionally steadying me with touches that lingered a beat too long.

"Your fever's quite high." His fingers brushed my neck as if checking my pulse, but trailing along my collarbone afterward. "I'm disappointed your therapist wasn't taking better care of you. Though perhaps he was providing... other forms of care?"

His suggestive tone made bile rise in my throat. My hands instinctively moved to protect myself, a motion he caught and smiled at. That knowing smile had once made me feel special, chosen, but now made me want to scour my skin raw.

"I'm fine. It’s just a fever." I tried to shift away.

He didn't stop, instead moving the cloth across my chest. "Always so stubborn. It's what makes you special. That fire never quite goes out, no matter how hard we tried controlling it."

A violent shudder rippled from my spine outward, my skin crawling as if trying to detach itself from muscle and bone, desperate to escape his words. Not from fever, but from deep-seated conditioning. His voice alone could produce a stronger physical response than most people could trigger with threats.

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