Page 73 of Vital Signs

He hadn't left me. Not by choice.

No, I couldn't let this go. Couldn't let the anger slip away just because he had a good excuse for being gone. He'd still violated my DNR.

I gripped the fury like a lifeline, trying to stoke it back to life. But it kept dissolving, melting away under the weight of one undeniable truth: Misha had fought to reach me. Had refused to accept abandonment. Had chosen me when everyone else had chosen to walk away.

The war between rage and relief tore me apart.

My limbs jerked like a marionette's, with no control, no rhythm. A ripple of pain knifed through me, sharp enough to blind me for a second. Sweat poured down my face. I might have blacked out for a moment.

When I came back, Misha was still there, looking scared.

"I waited for hours," I finally managed.

"I know." His voice dropped. "And when I finally got there, you were..." He couldn't finish. "Not like that. Not alone."

"It still wasn't your choice to make." The words lacked the heat they'd held before.

"No." He took another step closer. "But I made it anyway. Because for once in your life, I wanted you to know that someone came back."

My tongue felt thick. "I'm still mad at you," I said finally.

"You have every right to be. I violated your choice. Your autonomy." He met my eyes.

"You had no right."

"No," he agreed. "I didn't. But I made that choice. I'd rather live with your hatred than without you at all."

The words hit like a punch. Simple. Honest. Devastating.

"What if I can't forgive you?"

"Then I'll accept that." His eyes held mine. "As long as you're alive to hate me, I'll live with the consequences."

My body shuddered with another wave of withdrawal symptoms, muscles contracting painfully. This time I didn't push him away when his hand landed on my arm.

"I don't forgive you," I said, even as I let his hand stay where it was. "Not yet."

Misha nodded. "I understand. But I'm not going anywhere. You're mine to protect now, whether you like it or not."

Another wave of withdrawal hit, the tremors making my teeth chatter. The memory of being alone in that van, convinced he'd abandoned me like everyone else, clawed at my throat.

"What about the files?" I asked suddenly. "Did Wright get them back?"

"No. They're safe." Misha's expression darkened. "But his lawyers are fighting us. Trying to use the law like a hammer."

The shame burned hotter. My overdose had given Wright ammunition.

"So I fucked everything up."

"No." Misha moved closer. "We're still fighting. But right now, you need to heal."

Misha didn't say anything else. Just took my hand and held it.

I didn't have the strength to push him away again. Didn't want to. His hand was warm. Real. Alive.

We stayed like that, connected by nothing but skin against skin, while my body fought its way through hell. Neither of us spoke again, but something had shifted in the silence.

I wasn't ready to forgive him. I wasn't sure I ever would be.