Page 116 of Ruthless

He turned then, slowly, his perfect face calm despite the elements raging behind him. clasped behind his back, relaxed, confident.

His face sent a shock wave through my system. My vision tunneled, the room's edges blurring as adrenaline flooded my veins. Bile rose in my throat, acidic and bitter. My heart slammed against my ribs, threatening to punch through bone and muscle. The gun suddenly weighed a thousand pounds in my hand, my arm trembling from the effort to keep it raised.

Yet beneath rage and terror, something else rolled through me, sickening and familiar. My spine straightened automatically. My chin lifted without permission. My breathing slowed to match his measured cadence. The conditioning ran so deep it had rewired my fucking nervous system. I hated myself for the response even as my body betrayed me.

"Zeus chained him to that rock for his hubris," Prometheus said, stepping into the room. "And sent an eagle to tear out his liver each day, only to have it grow back each night so his torment couldbegin anew with the dawn. An interesting detail, don't you think? That the punishment wasn't death, but transformation. Pain as a catalyst for something... greater."

A sound escaped me. Not quite a word, not quite a growl. Something primal and wounded that had been locked inside me since I was six years old. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, using the pain to ground myself, to fight back against the dissociation threatening to pull me away from this moment I'd waited twenty-six years for.

I forced myself to see him for what he truly was. Not a god, not the mythical figure who had dominated my nightmares, but a man. A monster in human skin, but human nonetheless. Breakable. Killable.

"I expected you sooner," he said, calmly walking to a small bar cart near the window. "After our little dinner at the Serbian restaurant, I thought you might come straight here." He poured amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. "But then, you always were sentimental. I assume you wanted one last night with your therapist before our... reunion."

Ice flooded my veins. He'd been watching us.

"Even at the Acropolis, there are those loyal to me. I know about your touching visit to the sanctuary, too." He sipped his drink, eyes never leaving mine. "Did you tell him about Milan during your heartfelt confessions? About our little vacation together?"

My finger tightened on the trigger, rage burning through my veins. "Shut up."

"Now, now," he chided, as if speaking to a child. "Is that any way to speak to your creator?"

"You didn't create me," I spat. "You warped me. You stole me."

"I saved you," he corrected. "I found you in the rubble of that village, covered in blood, clutching that pathetic little homemade knife. I took you from ashes and made you into something magnificent."

"You took a traumatized child and turned him into a killer," I said, voice steadier now. The gun steadied in my grip. "You didn't save me. You enslaved me."

As the words left my mouth, a strange pressure built at the base of my skull—my conditioning fighting back against this defiance. My tongue felt thick suddenly, throat muscles constricting as if invisible hands were choking me for daring to speak to him this way. My free hand twitched violently at my side, wanting to slap myself for the disrespect, to physically punish my own insubordination. I bit down hard on my cheek until the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth, using that sharp pain to override the programming.

He laughed, the sound ricocheting off marble and glass, drilling into my skull. "And yet here you are, proving my point. The perfect weapon, designed for one purpose." His eyes flicked to the gun. "To kill."

"I'm here for Ana," I said. "To take her home."

His expression changed then, something dark and possessive flickering across his face. "Ana is home. This is her home now. With me. Her husband."

"You brainwashed her," I snarled. "You stole her memories, her identity."

"I gave her peace," he countered. "While you were out collecting pennies, becoming the monster you claim to hate, I was giving your sister a life of luxury, of purpose. She has everything she could ever want."

"Except the truth."

"The truth?" Prometheus laughed again, cold and cruel. "The truth is, Luka, that you're just like me. We're cut from the same cloth, you and I. Why do you think I chose you? Why, out of all the orphans in Bosnia, did I pick you?"

I said nothing, the gun still trained on his heart.

"Because I recognized myself in you. That same hunger, that same capacity for calculated violence." He set his glass down, spreading his arms wide. "Look at you now. Ready to kill again. Ready to add one more penny to your collection."

"This isn't a contract," I said. "This is justice."

"Justice?" He smiled. "Is that what Vincent told you? That killing me would somehow absolve you of your sins? Wash the blood from your hands?" He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Such naivety. From him, it's understandable. From you..."

"Leave him out of this," I growled.

"I'm afraid that's impossible. You see, his contract remains open. And if not you, then someone else will collect that penny." He stepped closer, seemingly unconcerned about the gun aimed at his chest. "But I'm offering you a choice, Luka. Come back to me. Submit to reconditioning. And I'll cancel the contract on Dr. Matthews."

My finger tightened on the trigger. "You're lying."

"Perhaps," he conceded. "But can you take that chance? Are you willing to bet his life on it?" His voice dropped lower, hypnotic in its intensity. "You know what happens to assets who break their contracts. The Tribunal has rules, Luka. Rules even I can't break."

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