Page 56 of Vital Signs

Instead of pulling away like any sane person would, Misha shifted closer. "Show me."

"Show you what?"

"Show me how to check your pulse. Teach me how to do it right."

And just like that, my vision went blurry because this beautiful man wanted to learn from me. Wanted to understand the one thing I still knew how to do right. I positioned his fingers over my radial artery, the tremor in my hands making me want to apologize for how pathetic I was, how unworthy of his attention.

"Two fingers, not the thumb. The thumb has its own pulse."

He adjusted his grip, and I nearly lost it completely at the touch of his elegant fingers to my pulse.

"Count for fifteen seconds, then multiply by four." My voice cracked as muscle memory took over, the same tone I'd used with new nurses back when I believed healing mattered. When I thought I was someone worth listening to. "Normal resting heart rate is sixty to one hundred beats per minute."

He counted silently, and I watched his perfect lips move. Un, deux, trois. French numbers, which shouldn't have surprised me but somehow did. Even counting, he sounded like poetry, like something beautiful and refined that didn't belong in the same universe as my decay.

Tears burned behind my eyes.

"One hundred and twelve," he said, voice soft, like he was sharing a secret.

"Stress response. Normal for withdrawal." The words came out broken, fractured by the emotions clawing up my throat. I guided his hands to my neck, positioning them over my carotid pulse, and the intimacy destroyed me. "This is stronger. Easier to find during emergencies."

The tears spilled over before I could stop them. When was the last time someone had touched me like this? Like I was precious instead of pathetic?

One of my tears landed on his hand where it rested against my throat, and his eyes snapped up to meet mine. For a moment we just stared at each other while he counted my pulse and I fell apart.

He pulled his sleeve over his hand and gently wiped the moisture from my cheek, and I wanted to lean into that touch until I disappeared completely.

"What else should I check?" he asked, like my crying was the most natural thing in the world. Like I wasn't some broken-down junkie having an emotional collapse over basic human kindness.

Before I could answer, another wave hit me.

My temperature regulation was gone. I was burning hot, then freezing cold.

Misha pulled the blankets around me, tucking them tight before curling up against my side. His warmth pressed into me through the fabric, solid and grounding while my body couldn't decide if I was freezing or burning alive.

Eighteen hours in. Theearly afternoon had been bearable, relatively speaking. By six o'clock, hell arrived in its purest form.

The symptoms I'd managed to endure all day became unbearable. Not worse—I'd already maxed out the pain scale. But my ability to withstand it was eroding.

Clothes became torture. I ripped them off, but the cold air felt like relief for exactly three seconds before the fever returned.

Outside, full darkness had fallen. The van shrank somehow, becoming more claustrophobic, like the walls were slowly closing in.

The fever climbed toward dangerous territory, and I knew—I fucking knew—that this might actually kill me.

"I need a hospital," I gasped, shaking so hard the van rocked. "I’m dying."

"Your pulse is strong," Misha said, fingers finding my throat again. "One hundred and twenty, but steady. Your body's fighting, not failing."

But his kindness, his gentle reassurance, his stubborn refusal to abandon me triggered something vicious in my withdrawal-addled brain. The pain needed somewhere to go, and he was the only target within reach.

I shoved his hand away from my throat. "Leave me alone," I snarled, but that wasn't enough. The poison kept pouring out. "Idon't want you! I don't need you! Get your fucking hands off me and fuck off!"

He jerked back like I'd slapped him, face going pale, and the exact moment the words hit home played out across his features. The flinch, the curling inward, the careful composure cracking.

But I couldn't stop. The cruelty poured out unchecked, poisonous and brutal.

"Quit being so goddamn needy and leave me the fuck alone! Stop touching me, stop hovering, stop acting like you give a shit. I never asked for this. I never asked for you."