Page 59 of Ruthless

His pupils dilated. Whether from anger or arousal, I couldn't tell. Maybe both. "That doesn't mean—"

"You've risked everything for me," I continued, holding his gaze. "Your career. Your life. Your standing in the Pantheon. So don't tell me this doesn't matter to you, Luka. I deserve better than that lie."

For a moment, I thought he might kiss me again or possibly strangle me. The tension between us crackled like live electricity. Then his expression changed, shifting from defensiveness to something more calculating.

"What do you want from me, Vincent?" he asked, voice dangerously soft. "A confession? Some tearful admission that you've changed my life? That I'm suddenly a different man because we fucked?"

I flinched at his crudeness, but held my ground. "I want honesty. Even if it's ugly. Even if it's that you don't know what this is yet."

"Fine." He took a step back, creating distance between us. "Honestly? I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I've never stuck around. Never wanted to. Sex is just another tactical maneuver for me, a way to release tension or manipulate a target."

"And last night?" I pressed.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Last night wasn't tactical."

The admission hung between us.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Luka glanced at it, then froze, his entire body going rigid. The color drained from his face as he stared at the screen.

"Luka?" I moved toward him, alarmed by his reaction. "What is it?"

Wordlessly, he turned the phone toward me.

It was a photo of a man hanging from what looked like a shower rod, face blue, eyes bulging. Dead. Unmistakably dead.

But it wasn't just any man.

It was Michael Bensen. My patient. The one who'd finally worked up the courage to propose to his boyfriend after years of crippling self-doubt. The one who'd brought me a small cactus three sessions ago because he remembered I liked plants. The one who'd just made a breakthrough about his childhood trauma.

Michael, who had been alive and hopeful, now hung lifeless from his own bathroom fixtures.

A text followed the image:Such a tragic suicide. Perhaps Dr. Matthews should have seen the signs. How many more patients must die to protect your therapist? How many innocent lives is his worth?

The message was unsigned, but it didn't need to be.

I looked at the image, my stomach turning. Nausea crashed through me in waves. Michael's face burned behind my eyelids each time I blinked.

"Michael," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Oh god, Michael."

Luka set the phone down, gripping my shoulders to steady me as my knees threatened to buckle.

"This wasn't suicide," I said, certainty cutting through the shock. "Michael wouldn't... He was planning his wedding. He was happy. He wouldn't do this."

"I know," Luka said quietly. "It's Prometheus."

"He's going to kill them all," I said, voice cracking. "All my patients. One by one. Because of me."

"This isn't your fault," Luka insisted, his thumb rubbing circles on my shoulder. "This is Prometheus. His game. His rules."

"Then we need to change the rules," I replied, surprised at how angry I sounded. "We can't just hide anymore, Luka. We need to fight back."

"What are you suggesting?"

"We attend Michael's funeral," I said, the plan crystallizing as I spoke. "It's almost certainly a trap, but we go in prepared. On our terms, not his."

Luka studied me, head tilted slightly. "That's risky."

"So is doing nothing while he murders more innocent people," I countered. "Michael won't be the last unless we stop him."