Page 135 of Vital Signs

We left Nash's office without another word. The silence followed us into the hallway, broken only by the quiet hum of the elevator arriving.

We stepped in, and the elevator doors closed behind us with a soft ping. The moment we were alone, Misha slammed me against the wall, his mouth on mine. His teeth scraped my bottom lip, breaking skin. The copper tang of blood mixed with his taste.

The adrenaline of threatening Nash, of seeing her crumble, transformed into a different kind of power between us. The violence we'd promised her became something else entirely. Something only we could share.

"Fuck," I groaned as his teeth scraped my neck. "The way you grabbed her wrist. How you knew exactly where to press to make her hurt."

"I know where to press to make you hurt too," Misha purred, squeezing my cock through my pants. His fingers traced the outline, pressing just hard enough to make me gasp. "You get off on watching me destroy people."

"I get off on you," I corrected, rutting against his hand. "On this version of you that nobody else gets to see."

His mouth found my ear, teeth closing around the lobe. Pain and pleasure blurred together until I couldn't distinguish between them. The same high. The same rush. My new addiction wearing Misha's face.

"The version that killed for you?" he whispered.

"Yes," I hissed, need pulsing through my veins. "The version that'll do it again if she breaks her word."

Misha laughed against my throat. "Just wait until we get back to the hotel. I'll pin you down and ride you until you forget every language except my name."

The elevator pinged, warning us we were approaching the lobby. We broke apart, hands smoothing rumpled clothes, straightening ties, adjusting cuffs. The transformation was immediate and complete. By the time the doors opened, the monsters wore suits again. No blood, no bruises, just polished smiles and eyes too dark to be anything but feral.

In the lobby, a security guard watched us pass, his gaze lingering a beat too long. My fingers traced the outline of the recorder in my pocket. No weapons needed. The evidence we carried was deadlier than any knife.

We walked through the revolving doors into Boston's winter chill, victory and vengeance warming our veins more effectively than any drug.

A man in a gray coat stood by the fountain across the street, a newspaper folded under his arm, eyes tracking our movement. Not security. Something else. Someone else. When our eyes met briefly, he touched his earpiece and turned away.

"Will she keep her word?" I asked as we headed toward the car.

"She will," Misha said with absolute certainty, glancing back at the building's glass facade. "But we'll verify anyway."

The sleek black town car Nikita had arranged waited at the curb, the driver standing by the open door. As we slid into the backseat, Misha's phone buzzed with an incoming text.

"Shepherd," he said, reading the message. "First site in Kentucky has already started clearing out. Looks like Nash took us seriously."

"Good." My hand found his, fingers interlacing. "Tyler would be proud."

Misha squeezed my hand. "I remember processing his body. 'He/Him' with that date underneath. The first thing I noticed when Tyler came to the morgue." His voice roughened. "We made them see him. Made them respect who he really was."

The car sped through Boston streets, away from Meridian's glass tower. Behind us, Nash was undoubtedly making calls, trying to contain the damage. But the trials would end. The killing would stop.

My phone buzzed. Jimmy's name appeared. Got fresh product. Medical grade. The good shit. You know where to find me. I stared at the message, then blocked his number and deleted the contact. One more tie to my old life severed.

The cravings would return. Some days would be harder than others. Recovery wasn't a destination but a journey I'd walk every day for the rest of my life.

I touched the spot on my arm where track marks were slowly fading. For the first time since I'd plunged that first needle into my vein, I wanted something else more than I wanted to forget. Hell, I wanted a lot of things now, things I never would have dreamed of wanting before.

And the most important was sitting right next to me.

I took Misha's hand in mine. "What now?"

Misha leaned closer. "Now we live, lao gong."

8 Months Later

A year ago, crowds like this would have sent me spiraling into dissociation. Every face was a threat, every camera a weapon aimed at my vulnerability. Roche had weaponized my need to perform, turning my natural magnetism into the trap that kept me captive.

Now I adjusted the microphone and moved into position at the podium, surveying the speech I'd rehearsed a dozen times. Community members, social workers, and clinic staff filled the rows of folding chairs before me, all gathered for the grand opening ceremony. These people weren't here to consume me but to support something we'd built together.