Luka wasn’t the kind of man you could touch and live to tell the story. Those who tried—whether out of arrogance or desperation—ended up with a bullet in their skull before their fingers grazed his skin. It wasn’t just a rule. It was survival. Because to be touched was to be dragged back to the nightmare—the hands that pinned him down, the voices he once trusted whispering things a child should never hear.

Then you came along.

Out of the thousands who applied to serve in his estate, you were the only one who stood out. Not because you were the most skilled, but because you never pried, never pushed. You were just… there. And in time, you became more than just a maid. You were his nurse, his assistant, his shadow. Five years of your presence, and somehow, impossibly, you were the only person Luka trusted enough to let close. The only one he let touch him.

Now, he sat at the edge of his bed, shirt discarded, dark eyes burning into yours as you knelt before him, tending to the bullet wound on his thigh. Blood soaked the bandage as you worked, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers.

He groaned, low and sharp, his fingers gripping the sheets as you tightened the bandage. His jaw clenched, breath heavy. But you knew—this wasn’t from pain.

The air between you tightened. Charged. You felt it in the way his muscles tensed under your touch, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed hard. Your hands stilled against his skin, fingers brushing just a little too close to where the heat of him burned through the fabric of his slacks.

You cleared your throat, shifting to stand. “It’s done—”

His hand shot out, catching yours before you could pull away. His grip was firm, commanding, but not forceful. His palm was warm, pressing yours deeper against his thigh.

“Keep going,” Luka murmured, voice dark and rough, his eyes locked onto yours like a hunter pinning its prey. The corner of his lips curled into something between a smirk and a dare.

“Finish what you started.”