Page 31 of Vital Signs

Hunter's eyes searched my face, looking for something. Fear, maybe. Hesitation. Whatever he saw there made him nod slowly.

"Okay." His voice shifted, became more controlled despite the tremor in his hands. "First, you need to measure the dose. See the bag? Tap a small amount onto the spoon. Half a gram, maybe less. "

My hands were already moving. I measured by eye, tapping the precise amount into the blackened spoon.

Hunter went quiet, watching.

"Like this?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral even as I added water from the bottle cap.

"Yeah." His response came slowly. "Now you need to heat it. Hold the lighter underneath, but not too close. You want to dissolve it, not burn it."

I held the flame beneath the spoon, swirling gently as the powder dissolved and turned amber. I drew it up through a piece of cotton, into the syringe.

"You said you'd never done this before." Hunter's voice had gone flat.

I met his eyes. "I said I'd never done this before. Not like this."

"Bullshit." His pupils were still dilated from withdrawal, but his gaze had sharpened. "You handle that like a nurse. Like someone who's done it a hundred times." He watched my hands tie the tourniquet around his arm, each movement practiced and sure. "What the fuck were you really doing in Paris?"

I positioned the needle against his skin and found the vein easily. "I told you. I was held captive by someone who thought of people as objects to be collected and studied. He liked to preserve his victims."

"Preserve." Hunter's jaw clenched. "What does that mean?"

"He injected them with compounds. Preservation fluids. While they were still alive." The words came out steady, factual. "Roche taught me. Made me practice on his victims before he killed them."

Hunter went completely still. "And you just let me believe—" His jaw clenched hard enough I could hear his teeth grind. "Did you get off on that too? Having me trust you while you lied?"

"Maybe." I didn't look away from his eyes. "Does it matter? You still needed me to do it."

"Fuck you." But he didn't pull his arm away. Couldn't. The addiction was stronger than pride, stronger than anger. We both knew it.

Something dark passed between us then. Recognition. Two people who'd taken medical knowledge and twisted it into something wrong. Hunter had used his training to hurt people for money. I'd used mine to help a monster preserve his victims like butterflies pinned to cork.

We were perfect for each other in the worst possible way.

Normal people would see what we were and run. Would recognize the danger, the damage, the fundamental brokenness that made us capable of these things.

But we weren't normal people. We were survivors who'd learned that morality was a luxury and control was currency.

And right now, with my hands steady on the syringe and his pulse hammering beneath my fingers, I had all the power.

The realization should have frightened me. Instead, it made me hard.

"We're both fucked up," Hunter said quietly, and it wasn't quite forgiveness.

"Completely." I positioned the needle at the perfect angle. "But right now, I'm the one holding what you need."

His pulse hammered against my fingers where I held his arm steady. The vein stood out clearly, ready. Waiting.

I didn't push the plunger.

"Misha." His voice had gone rough. "Come on."

"Tell me about Tyler," I said. "Who was he to you?"

"What?" The confusion in his eyes was almost funny. Almost.

"Tyler." I kept my thumb on the plunger, applying just enough pressure to let him know I was there. "Tell me about him, and I'll give you what you need."