Page 10 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

The dining room hummed with conversation when I arrived at seven sharp.

Annie had made meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans, and the rich, homey scents wrapped around me like a hug.

The extended family gathered around the massive oak table, and for a moment I could almost pretend we were normal.

Just a big family sharing dinner, not vigilantes planning their next hunt.

"Misha." Annie's face lit up when she saw me. "Perfect timing. How was your day?"

"Productive," I said, sliding into my usual seat between Xander and Xavier.

Xavier gave me a quick nod. Tatiana and Nikita Volkov held court at one end, their rapid-fire Russian mixing with everyone else's English in the familiar chaos of family dinner.

Once everyone had filled their plates, Annie tapped her knife against her water glass. "Alright, family. Does anyone have business to bring to the table tonight?"

River's eyes met mine, and he gave me an encouraging nod.

"I do," I said.

A ripple of surprise went around the table.

War set down his fork, giving me his full attention. "What's the case?"

"A doctor is using homeless people as lab rats and covering up the deaths." I met his eyes directly. "I want the family to sanction his execution."

The table went silent.

"Tell us what you've found," War said carefully.

I laid out Tyler's case, telling them about the misgendering at the county morgue, the experimental drugs in his system.

I outlined how the trail led me to Dr. Elliot Wright and his pharmaceutical trials targeting vulnerable populations.

I painted Wright as a predator who fed on desperation, who saw human beings as disposable test subjects.

"How did you come by this information?" War asked when I finished.

"I've been investigating since Tyler's body arrived at the funeral home. I found evidence of at least six other victims who ended up in emergency rooms with similar symptoms."

River leaned forward. "I can confirm the county misgendered the victim. Misha caught it immediately and corrected the paperwork. He's been... invested in this case from the start."

"And the source of this evidence?" Nikita asked.

I met his eyes directly. "I have connections."

"What kind of connections?" War pressed. "Medical staff? University insiders?"

I hesitated, and River leaned forward. "The man who broke into the funeral home the other night. You've been working with him."

Shit. Of course River had put it together.

"His name is Hunter," I said. "He knew Tyler. He has connections to other trial participants."

"Hunter who?" War's voice had gone sharp.

"Hunter Song. He's... he used to be a nurse."

"Used to be?" Nikita's accent thickened.

I took a deep breath. "He lost his license. He's homeless. Struggling with addiction. But that doesn't mean—"

"Absolutely not." War cut me off. "You want us to sanction an operation based on information from a homeless addict?"

The burn started in my chest. "He's a former medical professional. He knows these people, knows the system—"

"He's compromised," Tatiana said flatly. "Addicts lie. They steal. They can't be trusted with sensitive information."

"That's rich," I shot back, "coming from people who—" I stopped myself, but the damage was done.

"Coming from people who what?" Annie's voice was dangerously quiet.

"Nothing," I muttered.

"No, say it," Xander demanded. "What were you going to say?"

I looked around the table. At Nikita, who'd killed more people than I could count. At River, who fed parts of his victims to his mushrooms. At Annie, who'd earned the name Angel of Death. At Xander, who I'd seen rolling on molly just last week.

"Coming from people who think an addict is too dangerous to work with," I said finally. "But a cannibal is fine. A serial killer is fine. The Russian mafia is fine. Just not someone with an opioid addiction."

The silence was deafening.

War's expression hardened. "Those are family. Proven. Loyal. You're asking us to trust someone we don't know, who has every reason to tell you what you want to hear if it means getting money or drugs."

"Hunter isn't like that."

"You've known him for what, two days?" River interrupted.

Xavier sighed. "Misha, Wright's connected.

University faculty, pharmaceutical companies, and probably lawyers on retainer.

This isn't some random predator we can disappear quietly.

This is high-profile, high-risk. You sure you want to stake your reputation—and ours—on the word of someone you barely know? "

The concern in his voice wasn't about me being fragile. It was about me being reckless. Somehow that stung worse.

"I'm not asking you to trust Hunter," I said, keeping my voice level. "I'm asking you to trust me. To trust my judgment."

"Those trials are regulated," War said, cutting through the noise. "Participants consent. They're informed of the risks."

"Informed?" My voice went sharp. "Tyler trusted a doctor who deliberately poisoned him. That's not consent. That's murder with paperwork."

War's jaw tightened. "Even if you're right, we need evidence before we act."

"I have evidence. Tyler's dead. The drugs in his system—"

"The word of an addict and your gut feeling," Nikita interrupted. "That's not how we operate."

"This isn't about you," War said quietly. "Is it?"

I flinched. The knowing look in his eyes said he'd already decided the answer.

"This is about Tyler."

"Tyler's been dead for weeks." War leaned forward. "What changed? You meeting a homeless addict who reminds you of yourself? You finding someone else who's been failed by the system?"

The accuracy stung worse than the accusation.

"Wright's death would bring scrutiny," Xavier added. "Investigations. The kind of attention we can't afford. This is exactly the case that could destroy everything we've built."

The dismissal hit exactly where it was supposed to. Too emotional. Too reckless. Too damaged to be trusted with important decisions.

"Fine," I said, voice tight. "But when more people die, their blood will be on your hands."

"Here's what we're going to do," Annie said. "We investigate Wright properly. Gather irrefutable evidence from multiple sources. If there's a case, we'll discuss it at the next meeting."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, you step back," War said firmly. "Let us handle this the right way."

"The family sanctions a proper investigation," Annie announced. "River will lead. Xavier will provide technical support."

"What about me?" I asked.

"You provide information when requested," Warrick said. "You take care of the body. Focus on that."

Stay in your lane, he was saying.

The silence stretched. Everyone waited for me to agree. To apologize. To be the good son, the grateful rescue project, the boy who knew his place.

But I’d endured two years of being protected. Two years of being told what I could handle and what I couldn't. I’d spent all that time being treated like Roche had broken something fundamental in me that would never heal.

And maybe he had. Maybe that's exactly what was broken. My ability to let other people make my choices. My willingness to be kept safe in a gilded cage.

Hunter didn't try to protect me from myself. He'd handed me a knife and trusted me to use it. He'd watched me steal evidence and didn't question whether I could handle it. He saw me as dangerous, capable, and an equal.

The family saw me as damaged goods to be managed.

I couldn't live like that anymore.

I stood, chair scraping against the hardwood. Every eye was on me.

"You want me to step back. Let you investigate 'properly.'" My voice was steady now, certain. "But I can't do that."

"Misha—" Annie started.

"No." The word came out sharp as a blade. "I'm going after Wright. With or without your permission. With or without your help."

The room went silent. River's eyes narrowed. War's jaw clenched. Xander looked like I'd physically struck him.

"Then you're on your own," River said flatly.

Something cracked open in my chest. Freedom or loss, I couldn't tell which. Maybe both.

"I know," I said. And walked out.

My room felt different. Not the sanctuary it had been an hour ago when I'd dressed to seduce Hunter and take on the world. Now it felt like a cell I'd just unlocked from the inside.

My hands shook as I pulled out my phone. The Laskins had saved me. Given me a home. A purpose. A family. And I'd just walked away from all of it.

For what? A dead trans kid I'd never met? A homeless addict who might not even show up?

For myself.

For the first time since Roche, I was choosing myself.

I typed a message out to Hunter: I'm heading to the clinic. You in?

Sent.

Delivered.

I stared at the screen, watching for the "read" receipt. Nothing.

Five minutes. Still nothing.

I tried calling but it went straight to voicemail.

My chest tightened. What if he'd already used? What if while I'd been arguing with my family, Hunter had been sliding a needle into his vein, choosing chemical peace over our plan?

What if I'd just burned every bridge I had for someone who was already gone?

I opened the FindMe app with trembling fingers. The AirTag I'd slipped into Hunter’s jacket showed his location: deep in the Hocking State Forest. Miles from any road. Not moving.

Either he was using in privacy, or hurt, or doing whatever the fuck homeless people did in the woods to survive.

None of the options were good.

I grabbed my jacket and keys. The Laskins would never forgive this. Hunter might not even want my help. I might be driving into the woods to find a corpse or someone too high to remember my name.

But I was done asking permission to exist.

Done letting other people decide what I could handle.

Done being the victim everyone needed to protect.

If Hunter was in trouble, I'd find him. If he'd chosen drugs over our plan, I'd make him choose again. If he tried to push me away, I'd push back harder.

I'd burned my bridges. Might as well own it.

This was probably a mistake, but it was my mistake to make.