Page 86 of Ruthless

In the kitchen, I moved silently, measuring coffee grounds. The coffee maker gurgled quietly as I leaned against the counter, running through mental preparations for the day ahead. In a few hours, we'd be attending Michael's funeral, walking knowingly into Prometheus's trap.

I'd spent twenty-six years witnessing death, causing it, documenting it. But watching Vincent process the loss of someonehe'd cared for, someone he'd tried to help, stirred something protective in me that went beyond my mission to keep him alive.

I heard movement from the bedroom—the rustle of sheets, the soft pad of bare feet. The hairs on the back of my neck rose in warning before my brain recognized the familiar cadence of Vincent's footsteps. Still, I tensed slightly. Old habits.

He appeared in the doorway, sleep-mussed and beautiful in borrowed sweatpants that hung low on his hips. My eyes traced the line of exposed skin where his t-shirt rode up, my body responding instantly to the memory of how that skin had felt under my hands, my mouth. The marks I'd left were hidden beneath the shirt now, but knowing they were there, that he carried my claim on his body, sent heat pooling in my groin.

"Morning," he said softly, his voice still rough with sleep.

I turned to face him, scanning for any sign of regret or discomfort after last night. Instead, I found only warmth in his eyes.

"Coffee's almost ready," I said, finding my voice unexpectedly tight. "Lo will be here in thirty minutes. We need to finalize our plan."

Vincent moved closer, something in his expression shifting as he studied me. Always the therapist, always reading beneath the surface. "How are you feeling?"

I considered deflecting, retreating behind my usual armor of sarcasm and innuendo. But after last night, the usual defenses seemed pointless.

"Like I've been hit by a truck, run through a wood chipper, then reassembled by a blind surgeon," I said instead, aiming for levity.

Vincent's startled laugh sent warmth spreading through my chest. "That's... descriptive."

My mouth quirked, a genuine smile breaking through without permission. "Yeah, well. Not every day you realize your entireunderstanding of a formative experience was fucked." I handed him a coffee mug, deliberately letting my fingers brush against his. The brief contact sent electricity racing up my arm, the memory of those same fingers on other parts of my body still fresh.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I leaned forward and pressed my lips softly against his cheek. The kiss lasted barely a second but the small gesture left me more exposed than far more intimate acts.

I pulled back, startled by my own tenderness. Even with Jane, affection had been expressed through banter and violence, not this quiet domesticity. "But I'm okay. Or I will be. Right now, we need to focus on keeping us both alive."

Vincent cradled his mug, his eyes never leaving mine. I could practically see the gears turning in that analytical brain, assessing my emotional state, noting the shift in my behavior.

A sharp knock interrupted the moment. I tensed immediately, hand darting to the knife block on the counter and wrapping around the handle of a chef's knife. "That's either Lo or someone coming to kill us."

"Would a killer knock?" Vincent asked, only half joking.

"The polite ones do." I peered through the peephole and relaxed at the sight of Lo's familiar silhouette. I opened the door, revealing Lo in his typically flamboyant glory.

Lo wore what appeared to be tactical gear reimagined by a high-fashion designer: slim-fitting black pants with too many pockets, a fitted mesh top under a cropped jacket covered in metallic studs, and heavy boots that added at least two inches to his height. His blond hair was artfully tousled.

"Morning, lovebirds!" Lo sang out. "Is that coffee I smell? You're angels. Absolute angels." He turned to Vincent with a sympatheticpout. "You look exhausted, gorgeous. Rough night? Or good rough night?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

I cut in before Vincent could respond. "Don't start, Lo."

"Fine, fine. Be boring." Lo produced a garment bag, swinging it dramatically. "I've brought your funeral attire. Armani, modified by The Pantheon's tailors. You'll be the best-dressed target at the cemetery." He cast a critical eye over me. "Though someone should really get you out of those tactical pants. I know at least six ferrymen who'd pay good money for the privilege."

I rolled my eyes, refusing to take the bait. "If you're done with the fashion show and matchmaking, maybe we could focus on keeping everyone alive today?"

"So serious this morning," Lo complained, helping himself to coffee from the pot I'd just made. "What happened to the Luka who stole that helicopter in Bangkok just for fun? The one who broke into the Japanese embassy wearing nothing but body paint and a smile? That's the psychopath I signed up to work with."

"He grew up," I muttered.

Lo shot Vincent a look over his mug. "What did you do to him? He used to be fun."

"He's standing right here," I pointed out, annoyed at being discussed as if I weren't present.

The two of us huddled around the kitchen table, where I unfurled a map of the cemetery. I forced the vulnerability of last night away, replacing it with lethal focus as I mapped out our survival routes. I traced potential danger points, mentally calculating angles, distances, and potential cover.

"Prometheus will be there," I said, tapping the map. "He'll have people watching. Waiting."

Vincent nodded. I admired his resolve. He'd built a life around helping people heal, and now one of his patients was dead because of his connection to me. But instead of running, he'd doubled down on his commitment to honor Michael's memory.

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