Page 91 of Ruthless

Vincent exhaled heavily beside me, his hand finding mine in the aftermath of our escape. "Well, that was..." he trailed off, searching for words.

"Just another Tuesday for us, doc," I replied, squeezing his fingers once before releasing them. We both knew this moment of relief was just intermission. The main performance still awaited us.

Diego slowed as we approached the gates, his eyes constantly checking the mirrors. "They'll be waiting when you leave.”

As we passed through the iron gates, my blood chilled. Parked along the winding cemetery road, positioned for perfect visibility of the funeral site, was a familiar black town car. The windows were tinted, but I knew. He was here. Watching. Waiting.

"Is that...?" Vincent started.

"Yes." My jaw clenched. Prometheus had come to watch his show in person. The arrogant fuck was sitting in air-conditioned comfort while we buried Vincent's patient.

Vincent's hand found mine briefly, squeezing hard. Not comfort. Shared rage.

I glanced at Vincent. He'd shifted fully into therapist mode with his spine straight, expression composed, ready to support grieving strangers while assassins circled like sharks. That courage, quiet and unshakeable, hit me harder than any bullet.

"You ready for this?" I asked softly. My hand moved without permission, brushing dust from his lapel.

"Yes," he said, then squeezed my hand. The touch grounded us both. "Thank you, Luka."

The hearse stopped a respectful distance from the green canopy where mourners gathered. As we climbed out, I caught Vincent's hand, fingers interlacing, his pulse against my palm. Alive. Here. Mine.

He squeezed back once before letting go. Time to say goodbye to Michael. Time to pretend we weren't being hunted. Time to honor the dead while staying among the living.

But first, I did a final weapons check. Because the Luka who protected was just as efficient as the one who used to kill. And anyone who tried to touch Vincent would learnexactly what that meant.

Luka's hand rested onmy lower back as we approached the mourners. Every point of contact sent electricity through me, wildly inappropriate arousal mixing with grief in a cocktail that made me dizzy.

I was getting hard at my patient's funeral. My psychological defects multiplied daily.

"North entrance," Lo murmured, somehow maintaining a mournful expression while scanning for threats. "Security everywhere. Prometheus isn't taking chances."

Luka went rigid against me, eyes scanning the perimeter. I forced myself not to follow his gaze, remembering his instructions to act normal.

"I need to get to the service," I said, pushing aside the growing tension. "Will you be okay?"

Luka gave a sharp nod, jaw clenched. "Lo stays with you. I'll maintain visual from the east side. Diego from the west." His thumbstroked once against my spine, an unconscious gesture that felt shockingly intimate. "Signal if you need anything."

They separated, Lo taking position beside me while Luka and Diego flanked the gathering. Even through my grief, I couldn't help tracking Luka's movement, the controlled power of him in that perfectly tailored suit.

"Well, well, look who decided to grace us with his presence," Lo murmured, nodding subtly toward a figure near the refreshments. "The cowboy Judge."

I followed his gaze. Rhadamanthys' Stetson was gone, perhaps in deference to the funeral setting, but everything else about him screamed "cowboy." Rhadamanthys, the Judge we'd encountered at the café. His dark eyes swept over the gathering.

"Why is he here?" I whispered.

"Judges appear when power shifts," Lo explained quietly. "They're like vultures circling before the kill."

Focus, Vincent. You're here for Michael.

The memorial garden stretched before us, white chairs arranged facing a simple podium. Michael's casket dominated the space, draped in white roses and forget-me-nots. The photos destroyed me: Michael graduating, hiking, proposing to David. Each image proof of a life cut short because he'd had the misfortune of being my patient.

My hands trembled as I sat. The guilt threatened to drown me, but under it lurked something else. Rage. Pure, clean rage at the man standing at the garden's edge like death itself.

"You okay, doc?" Lo's voice held unexpected gentleness. "You're white as virgin silk."

I almost laughed at the imagery. Nothing about me felt virginal anymore, not after Luka had corrupted me so thoroughly. "I'mmanaging."

David sat in the front row, shoulders caved inward. Last month he'd thanked me for helping Michael work through commitment fears. Said I'd given them a future.

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