Page 124 of Vital Signs

A sob tore from my throat. Tyler had been trying to come back to me while this monster kept him captive with promises of more money for his surgery fund.

"This is bigger than we thought," Eli said from where he'd been monitoring the recording equipment. "We can't be everywhere."

He was right. If what Wright was saying was true, hundreds of people like Tyler were being processed through Wright's network while we sat here interrogating one man.

"Then we'll have to find others who can be," Misha said quietly. His eyes lingered on the blinking red light of the recorder. “But I don’t think there’s much more Doctor Wright can help us with.”

Shepherd nodded grimly.

I stood, my hands still shaking slightly from the adrenaline. The body in the chair needed to disappear. Completely. No dental records. No fingerprints. No way for anyone to identify what remained.

"I'll handle it," I said, reaching for the dental forceps War had set on the nearby table. "I know anatomy. I can make this clean."

My fingers closed around the cold metal. It’d been four years since I'd held medical instruments, but they felt familiar. Wrong, but familiar.

Misha's hand closed over my wrist, gentle but firm, and the world narrowed to that point of contact. His thumb found my pulse, stroking across the racing beat the way he had during withdrawal, during panic attacks, during every moment when I'd needed grounding.

"You've done enough," he said quietly, eyes meeting mine. "Let me do this for you."

"I can handle it." But my voice carried less conviction than I'd intended. He was right. Wright had already made me feel like I had to become a monster to stop one.

"Hunter." The way he said my name was prayer and promise and possession all at once. "You're a healer. That's who you are. It’s who you’ve always been."

Something cracked open in my chest.

"Let me be what I am too," he continued, taking the forceps from my grip. "Let me be the one who kills for you. Let me keep your hands clean so they can still heal people."

I stared at him, this beautiful, deadly man who'd chosen me over vengeance in that basement, who'd saved three lives instead of pursuing his own satisfaction. Now he was offering to damn himself to preserve who I was.

I caught his wrist, stopping him. "You don't have to carry this either. Your hands don't need to be—"

"My hands have been stained since I was twelve," Misha said quietly. "My father's world. Russian connections. I helped Xander kill Roche, Hunter. This darkness isn't new to me." His eyes held mine, steady despite the shadow that passed behind them. "But it is for you. You're still a healer. Let me keep you that way."

My throat closed. This wasn't just love anymore. This was something deeper, more sacred. Misha wasn't just willing to kill for me; he was willing to bear the weight of it so I didn't have to. To carry the sin so I could stay clean.

I'd never had anyone love me enough to damn themselves for my salvation.

I looked across the room where War tended to the three survivors. The woman was awake now, confused but breathing steadily. One of the men was sitting up, asking questions in a voice hoarse from intubation. People who needed healing, not hurting.

People I could still help save.

"Go," Misha said, reading my thoughts. "They need you."

I pressed a kiss to his forehead, quick and grateful, then turned toward the medical station. Behind me, the soft clink of metal. Misha beginning his work.

For just a moment, I stopped. Closed my eyes. Breathed.

Tyler was dead. Wright was dead. And I was still here, still whole, still able to choose who I wanted to be.

I pulled the privacy curtain across the room, creating a barrier between the patients and what was happening behind me. They didn't need to see this.

A scream tore through the air behind the curtain—Wright's voice, high and desperate. Then a wet gurgle. Then silence.

I didn't look back.

"How are you feeling?" I asked the conscious patient, fingers finding his pulse. Steady. Strong. Alive.

"Confused," he admitted, squinting at me in the harsh light. "Where am I? What happened?"