Page 29 of Ruthless

Before I could craft a suitably deflective comeback, he turned and headed for the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the couch while blood dried on my face and confusion swirled in my gut.

Why was I letting him take charge? Why did I care what happened to him beyond keeping him alive long enough to figure out why someone wanted him dead? The familiar comfort of detachment slipped away, replaced by something I couldn't name and didn't want to examine.

I listened to him rummaging through cabinets in the bathroom, no doubt taking stock of his surroundings, processing the impossible reality he'd been thrust into. Vincent Matthews, respected therapist with a carefully ordered life, now hunted by the most dangerous organization in the world, all because I couldn't pull a trigger.

The truth was, I didn't know why I'd saved him. I only knew that putting a bullet in Vincent Matthews seemed like the one line I couldn't cross, even after twenty-six years of crossing every other.

Charon would be sending someone with a registration scanner soon. Vincent would be officially logged as my asset, given the token that would grant him passage through this underground world. The thought of him wearing my mark, carrying proof of my protection, stirred something possessive in me that I immediately tried to suppress.

Focus, Luka. This isn't about attachment. It's about survival.

I leaned my head back against the couch, listening to Vincent's movements in the bathroom as I tried to figure out how we were going to survivewhat came next.

My life had spiraledinto tabloid absurdity: "Respected Therapist Kidnapped by Assassin Discovers Underground Murder Cult."

The man in the mirror was a stranger. My hair was disheveled, eyes dilated with lingering shock, borrowed clothes hanging loose on my frame. Less than twelve hours ago, I'd been Dr. Vincent Matthews, respected therapist with a carefully ordered life and a reputation built on professional distance. Now I was a fugitive with a price on my head and a copper token heavy in my pocket, marking me as Luka's "asset" after a concierge had arrived with a mobile scanner. The cool metal pressed against my thigh through the fabric of my borrowed pants, a constant reminder of my new status in this underground world.

"This can't be real," I whispered to my reflection, watching as color bloomed high on my cheekbones. But the heat coiling low in my belly suggested part of me was thrilled by the danger, drawn to it even.

I retrieved the first aid kit from under the sink. The thought of getting to put my hands on Luka again sent a dangerous electricwarmth racing through me. I seriously needed to develop better taste in men. Less dangerous tastes, anyway.

I found him leaning against the kitchen counter, posture deceptively casual despite the dried blood and the pain evident in the tight lines around his eyes.

"Sit," I commanded.

He raised an eyebrow but complied, a slow smirk spreading across his face despite the obvious pain. The movement pulled at the gash along his cheekbone, fresh blood beading along its angry edge. "Planning to play doctor, doc?"

He hissed in pain when I pressed the antiseptic-soaked gauze against his wound without warning.

I took perverse pleasure in the way the sound traveled down my spine like fingers trailing over piano keys, each vertebra responding in sequence. "If you don't stop moving, I'll have to restrain you. And unlike you, I don't make that offer to just anyone."

His eyebrows shot up, a grin spreading across his face despite the pain I knew I was causing. Blood and antiseptic mingled in the air between us, clinical and intimate at once.

"Well, well. There you are. I was wondering when the man I glimpsed behind that desk yesterday would come out to play."

My eyes locked with his, the challenge humming between us like a live wire. "Don't mistake professional control for weakness, Luka. That's a rookie error."

I pulled on latex gloves, the snap against my wrists punctuating the silence. His eyes tracked the movement, lingering on my fingers. I tilted his face toward the light, palm firm against his jaw.

The damage was impressive, even ignoring the broken nose I’d already set. Split lip, cuts and gashes, bruises blooming in watercolor shades of purple and midnight blue. Battle wounds from fightingfor my life. The thought sent a complicated mix of gratitude and something else through me, something darker.

"This looks bad," I said, tracing the edge of the angry wound. "It might be infected. Too soon to know for sure.”

"I've had worse."

"Hold still," I instructed, deliberately gentler with the next swipe. The contrast between kindness and clinical detachment was a game I'd perfected with difficult patients over years of practice. The back-and-forth kept him off-balance, his pupils dilating slightly with each shift in pressure.

"You're good at this," he observed, voice rougher than usual, scraping pleasantly against my nerves. "The control thing."

"Medical school before psychology," I replied, surprised at myself for sharing even this small truth. "I was headed for surgery before I switched tracks."

"Why the change?" His question seemed genuinely curious, not just deflection from pain.

I concentrated on cleaning the gash, buying time to decide how honest to be. The antiseptic turned pink with his blood as I worked, methodical strokes revealing the true extent of the wound beneath the dried mess. "I was better at fixing minds than bodies. Less blood, more satisfaction." The truth, if not the whole truth.

"Why do I get the sense there’s more to that story?”

I paused. Most people accepted the polished narrative I'd crafted over years of repetition. Luka had known me less than a day and already saw the cracks in my professional veneer.

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