Page 12 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

"That I was going after Wright with or without their help." He glanced at me, something fierce in his expression. "With or without their permission."

The weight of that settled between us. He'd chosen this. Chosen me. Over everything the Laskins represented. Safety. Support. Family.

"Why?" The question came out rougher than I intended.

"Why what?"

"Why me?" I gestured at myself. Blood-spattered, shaking, barely holding it together. "You could walk away right now. Should walk away. Why are you still here?"

Misha was quiet for a moment, studying me in the sickly Christmas lights. Then: "Because you stayed at the funeral home when anyone else would have run. Because you chose Tyler over your next fix. Because when I touched your shoulder, you didn't flinch. And everyone else flinches from me now."

His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the crowd still milling behind us. "Because I look at you and see someone who understands what it means to be reduced to nothing. To be treated like you don't matter. And I need someone who understands that, Hunter. I need..."

He stopped himself, jaw clenching.

"Need what?" I pushed.

His eyes found mine. Dark. Hungry. "You."

The word hung between us like a live wire. I winced when the movement pulled at the fresh scab on my lip. "I need to get cleaned up."

What I really meant was that I needed to find some place to shoot up. I was going to be useless to him in an hour or two once the withdrawals really started to kick my ass.

He jerked his head back toward his fancy van. "I'll take you somewhere with a bathroom."

"I'm covered in blood and mud," I said, gesturing to myself. "Don't want to mess up the upholstery."

Misha rolled his eyes. "Fuck the upholstery. Get in."

"Really?" I glanced back at the men behind me. They were all watching our interaction. "You sure?"

He tilted his head, studying me as if I was an interesting specimen. "I dated a savateur in Paris. Moroccan-French, competed professionally. Same kind of precision you just showed." Misha's eyes dragged over me. "Same beautiful violence."

He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne even over my own stink. Close enough to see his pulse jumping in his throat.

"He used to fuck like an animal after every match." His voice dropped, rough around the edges. "Best sex I ever had. All that adrenaline, all that violence, had to go somewhere."

The implication hung between us, heavy and obvious. He wasn't talking about his ex anymore. He was talking about me. About what he wanted from me.

"So you're not the first beaten and bloody thing I've had to take care of," he finished, but his eyes said something entirely different.

You're not the first. But you could be the best.

He walked back over to the van and jerked open the passenger-side door. "Get in."

I glanced back at the crowd, which had begun to disperse. Greg was trying to start another fight. If I stayed, maybe I could earn another thirty bucks... if I lasted a few more rounds.

"Your hands are trembling."

I looked down at my hands. He was right. The tremor was getting worse. I needed to get somewhere private, somewhere I could fix this before it got bad enough to drop me.

"Hunter." He stepped closer. "You're about to be very sick. You can either let me drive you somewhere warm, or you can stumble through miles of woods while your body tries to kill you. Your choice."

Getting into a van with him was a terrible idea.

He'd seen me at my worst. Seen me use everything noble about my former profession to hurt someone for thirty fucking dollars.

Seen exactly what I'd become. And now he'd admitted to tracking me, following me, hunting me down like I was something worth pursuing.

But withdrawal was already making my skin feel too tight, making my muscles cramp. The walk back to camp would be hell, and I wasn't sure I'd make it before the shaking got bad enough to drop me in a snowbank.

"Fine." The word tasted like defeat. "But I'm not going to your family's house. Don't need them seeing me like this."

The back of his van was not what I'd expected based on what I'd seen in the front earlier.

The interior had been completely gutted and rebuilt.

Wood paneling lined the walls and ceiling, giving it a warm, cabin-like feel.

Where passenger seats should have been, there was a simple kitchenette on one side and bench seating that looked like it converted into a bed.

It was warm inside, the heat already running, soft music playing through hidden speakers.

"You live in this?" I asked, sliding into the front passenger seat.

"Sometimes." He started the engine, pulling carefully onto the main road. "I've been working on it. Gives me somewhere to go when I need space."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Truck stop off Route 33. You need to get cleaned up, and I need to grab some supplies." He pulled onto the main road, driving carefully through the curves.

"And after that?"

"We're breaking into Wright's clinic."

The silence between us grew heavy, charged with something I didn't want to name. The van's heating system hummed quietly, filling the space with warmth that made me drowsy despite the withdrawal starting to claw at my edges.

Misha drove like he did everything else. Controlled grace, smooth acceleration, perfect timing on the turns. I caught myself watching his hands again. Long fingers, neat nails, a single silver ring on his right middle finger that caught the dashboard lights.

"You keep staring at my hands," he said without looking away from the road.

"They're very..." I stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence without admitting things I shouldn't admit.

"Very what?"

Capable. Elegant. The kind of hands that would know exactly where to touch. How much pressure. When to be gentle and when to grip hard enough to leave marks.

"Clean," I said finally.

He laughed, low and knowing. "That's not what you were going to say."

No, it wasn't. But I'd already crossed too many lines tonight, and letting him know I'd spent the last ten minutes imagining those hands on me seemed like one line too far.

"My hands aren't clean," I said, holding up my scarred knuckles. Track marks ran up both forearms, some fresh, some old. Evidence of four years of chasing oblivion. "Nothing about me is."

Misha's hand left the steering wheel, catching my wrist before I could pull away. His thumb pressed against my pulse point. Racing, despite trying to stay calm. He held it there for three heartbeats, four, five. Long enough for me to understand how steady his own pulse was in comparison.

"I don't want clean," he said, releasing me to grip the wheel again. "I want real."

The words shouldn't have hit like they did. Shouldn't have made something crack open in my chest, raw and exposed.

I turned away, staring out the window at the dark Ohio countryside rushing past. Tried to pretend my hands weren't shaking worse than before.

We drove through the winding back roads in relative silence until Misha suddenly gasped. "Oh mon Dieu!"

I tensed immediately, scanning the road ahead for danger. "What? What's wrong?"

"Regarde!" He pointed excitedly out the windshield at a gray squirrel perched on a fence post, tail twitching as it watched our headlights. "Look at his little hands! And that fluffy tail!"

I stared at him, then at the completely ordinary squirrel, then back at him. "You're... excited about a squirrel?"

"We don't have them in France!" His whole face had lit up like a kid's on Christmas morning. "I've only seen them in American movies. He's so fat and fluffy!"

The disconnect was staggering. This man had tracked me down with a fucking GPS device.

Had watched me beat someone unconscious for pocket change without flinching.

Had talked about his fighter ex-boyfriend like violence was foreplay.

And now he was losing his shit over suburban wildlife like it was the most magical thing he'd ever seen.

"They're basically rats with better PR," I said. "Most people think they're pests."

"Pests?" Misha looked genuinely offended. "Look at him! He's magnifique!"

The squirrel, apparently bored with our attention, scampered up a tree and disappeared. Misha watched it go before straightening in his seat with a small sigh, like he'd just witnessed something profound instead of rodent-tier fauna.

I didn't know what to do with that. With him.

This beautiful, dangerous man could switch from predator to child in the space of a heartbeat, and somehow that made him more dangerous.

Because I wanted both. Wanted the predator who'd tracked me down and the man who could find joy in a fucking squirrel.

Wanted him in ways that had nothing to do with the investigation or justice for Tyler. Ways that scared me more than withdrawal ever had.

Because chemicals were predictable. You knew what they'd do to you, how they'd make you feel, when they'd destroy you. But this? Misha? He was chaos wrapped in expensive cologne and perfect bone structure, and I had no idea how to protect myself from wanting him.

Didn't even know if I wanted to.

The truck stop was exactly what I'd expected. Fluorescent lights, diesel fumes, long-haul drivers grabbing coffee and questionable food. But it had showers, and right now that was all I needed.

“Here.” Misha counted out a few bills and held them out. “This should cover it.”

I stared at the money without taking it.

Misha sighed and forced the bills into my hand. “Think of it as payment for your assistance tonight. You go shower. I'll wait out here. Take your time."

I stared at him, trying to read his expression in the harsh overhead lights. What did he really want from me? And would he actually be here when I came back out?

There was something predatory in the way he watched me, something calculating that should have set off every survival instinct I had left. Smart money said I should walk away from whatever game he was playing. Keep walking until I hit the interstate and thumb a ride back to camp.

But I'd been living on borrowed time for four years now, and the thrill of not knowing if he'd still be here when I came out was better than any high I'd chased recently.

Only one way to find out.

The walk to the building was a test. Of what, I wasn't sure. Whether I could still trust anyone. Whether he'd stay. Whether I wanted him to badly enough to be disappointed when he didn't.

With every step away from the van, I expected to hear the engine start. Expected him to drive away, leaving me here with thirty dollars and the knowledge that I'd been stupid enough to hope.

But when I reached the building's entrance and looked back, he was still there, still silhouetted in the van, backlit by the dome light, watching me.

My stomach twisted with something that wasn't hunger, wasn't withdrawal. Something infinitely more dangerous.

Want.

I opened the door and headed toward the building, his eyes burning into my back with every step.