Page 118 of Ruthless

"That I'm still that person from Bosnia. That those parts of me survived." I raised the gun again, aiming directly between his eyes. "That you never fully broke me. And now I'm choosing who I want to be."

Alarm flashed across his face, quickly masked. "Think carefully, Luka. If you kill me, the Tribunal will hunt you down. And Vincent will still die."

"Maybe," I agreed. "But you definitely will."

At that moment, everything became crystal clear. I could see the path forward, the only path that would keep Vincent safe. It wasn't the one I'd planned when I leapt across that gap between buildings. It wasn't the revenge fantasy I'd nursed for twenty-six years.

It was something else entirely.

His eyes darted toward a door on the far side of the room. His hand inched toward his jacket.

"Don't," I warned.

A cold smile spread across his face. "You won't shoot me, Luka. You can't. The conditioning runs too deep."

Hewas right. My finger trembled on the trigger, the neural pathways he'd burned into my brain fighting against my conscious decision. Sweat trickled down my spine as I struggled against twenty-six years of programming.

"Disappointing," he sighed, seeing my hesitation. "But not surprising." He moved to a panel on the wall, pressing his palm against it. "I'd hoped to avoid this, but you leave me no choice."

A hidden door slid open. Ana stumbled through.

"Lincoln?" Ana's voice quavered. "What's happening?"

My heart didn't just seize, it shattered, each fragment cutting through my chest like shrapnel. Years of grief and rage and guilt crystallized into a single, paralyzing moment. My sister. My twin. Alive and terrified, three feet away from me.

Every cell in my body vibrated with the need to move toward her, to shield her, to gather her against me like I had when we were children. My muscles twitched with aborted movement, locked in place by shock and the gun at her temple. Sweat broke out across my forehead, my vision blurring at the edges as my brain struggled to process her presence.

Her ice-blue eyes—my eyes—locked on mine, searching for answers, for help, for salvation. Terror poured from her in waves, but beneath it flickered the faintest spark of recognition. Something buried deep, something Prometheus couldn't fully erase. The bond between twins, forged before birth, whispering across decades of separation.

"I'm sorry it came to this," Prometheus said, moving to Ana's side. He drew a gun, pressing it against her temple as he wrapped his other arm around her waist. "But you forced my hand."

"Let her go," I growled, gun still raised but now useless. I couldn't risk a shot with Ana in the line of fire.

"Drop your weapon," Prometheus ordered, voice cold as he pressed the barrel harder against Ana's temple.

"Don't hurt him," Ana pleaded, confusion clear in her voice. She didn't understand what was happening, but something in her recognized me. Something deep and primal. Something Prometheus couldn't erase completely. "Please, Lincoln, tell me what's happening."

My hand trembled so violently, I nearly dropped the gun. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision as my lungs screamed for oxygen. The gun's weight suddenly doubled, tripled, my muscles straining to keep it lifted. Every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of dizziness through me as I struggled against my programming.

"It's okay, my love," Prometheus soothed, his eyes never leaving mine. "Everything will be fine once Luka surrenders his weapon."

Time slowed to a crawl. The storm outside faded to white noise. Nothing existed except the three of us locked in this deadly moment. The gun in my hand. Prometheus's finger on his trigger. Ana's pleading eyes.

"You think this ends with me?" he snarled, edging closer to the balcony. "Zeus will hunt you both down. He'll burn everything you love. Starting with your therapist."

"You're insane," I whispered, the gun lowering fractionally in my hand.

"Am I?" Lightning flashed. "Zeus is methodical. Ruthless. He'll find your therapist. He'll find everyone you've ever cared about. And when he's done, he'll find you too."

Ana struggled against his grip, wincing as the gun barrel dug into her skin. "Lincoln, you're hurting me."

"Be still," he snapped, then returned his attention to me. "One last chance, Luka. Drop the gun. Come home. Or I paint these walls with your sister's blood."

Ana flinched at his tone, her eyes darting between us, struggling to understand. A tiny furrow appeared between her brows—the same expression she'd worn as a child when concentrating on a puzzle. The familiarity of it hit me hard, triggering a cascade of memories: Ana bent over a book in lamplight, Ana carefully dividing our last piece of bread, Ana serious-faced as she bandaged my scraped knee.

My sister. My protector just as much as I was hers.

Her gaze locked with mine again, and a tear slid down her cheek, leaving a glistening trail that caught the lightning's flash. In that tear, I saw every year of separation, every birthday celebrated alone, every moment stolen from us. The space between us might as well have been an ocean, vast and uncrossable, while Prometheus held her life in his hands.

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