Page 37 of Vital Signs

"You're enjoying this," he said.

"Finding evidence?" I scrolled to the next entry, letting my shoulder press against his. "Or having you this close while we do it?"

"Both." His hand found my hip. "You're fucked up."

"Says the man getting hard during a felony."

His fingers tightened on my hip before he turned back to the screen. "Patient status changes. Half marked 'Unable to contact' or 'No follow-up.'" He paused. "Some just say 'Deceased, no next of kin.'"

The panic hit without warning. This wasn't just Tyler anymore. This was Roche's laboratory multiplied by dozens.

"Misha." Hunter's hand touched my shoulder. "Look at me."

I couldn't. The names kept scrolling, kept multiplying.

"Breathe," he said, voice rough but steady. "Count backward."

"Ten." My voice cracked. "Nine, eight." The walls stopped closing in. "Seven."

By the time I reached one, the worst had passed. My hands were clammy, shirt sticking to my back. I forced myself to straighten, to pull myself back together.

Hunter's hand stayed on my shoulder, steady pressure. "Better?"

"No." I shook my head. "But functional."

He nodded. "Want to wait here?"

"No. I need to see all of it." I turned back to the screen, forcing my breathing to even out. Control was armor. I'd learned that on runways, in photographers' studios, and in Roche's laboratory. Control was how you survived. "Copy everything."

As files transferred, silence stretched between us. Not uncomfortable. Something else. Recognition, maybe. Two people who understood what it meant to be reduced to data points.

The transfer bar crept toward completion. Hunter's hand stayed on my shoulder, steady and grounding. Too steady. Too safe.

This was the Hunter who'd counted me down from panic. The careful one. The nurse who knew how to handle fragile things.

I didn't want careful. Not from him.

The transfer bar hit 90%.

Dammit, stop being careful with me."You're a coward," I said.

Hunter went very still. "What did you say?"

"You heard me." I held his gaze. "Too scared to take what you want. Too much of a fucking coward to..."

Hunter moved fast, slamming me back against the wall. His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat.

There it is, I thought, triumph surging through me.There's the real you.

His face was inches from mine, eyes black. "Say it again."

My heart hammered against my ribs, but desire flooded through me at the violence in his grip. This was what I'd wanted. Hunter losing control, taking what he needed from me. "Coward," I whispered.

Hunter yanked my bandana down roughly, then pulled his own away. His mouth crashed into mine, violent and claiming and exactly what I'd been pushing for. It wasn't gentle or tentative. It was pure possession, teeth and tongue and the kind of desperation that came from being pushed past a breaking point.

I melted into it, a soft sound escaping my throat. This was what victory tasted like—sweet and rough and copper-tinged. He kissed like he fought. Technically perfect but edged in violence that promised he could break me if he wanted to. I moaned against his mouth before biting the scab on his lip.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, the words came now or never. Before this went further. Before the moment passed and I lost my nerve.