Page 15 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

Misha

Hunter slumped against the passenger seat while I drove, head tipped back, pupils still constricted to pinpoints. His breathing had that slow, deep rhythm of someone wrapped in chemical cotton.

I couldn't stop watching him. The way his hands rested palm-up in his lap, fingers curled like he was holding something precious. I wanted to bite his throat, suck hard enough to leave bruises that would make his track marks look like pale scratches in comparison.

I was jealous of the fentanyl. Right now, it owned him more than I did.

"You do this often?" I asked. "Protect people at the camp?"

"Often enough." His words came slowly. "Someone has to watch for predators. Social workers who pocket benefit checks. Cops who trade arrests for favors. Dealers who spike product without warning."

And he'd just let me inject him because he trusted me. Or because he had no choice. Either way, the power made my pulse quicken.

I pulled into the clinic parking lot, killing the headlights.

The building loomed dark against the winter sky, all sharp angles and locked doors.

A fortress. But I'd learned how to slip past defenses in Paris, where the stakes had been fashion shows and my career.

This was just a different kind of performance.

"Do you know what the Laskins do?" I asked.

"I've heard stories." Hunter sat forward slightly. "Word is they're in with the Russian mob."

I smirked at that. I was more Russian mob than most of the Laskins were, considering my father had been an enforcer in Paris. "They're vigilantes," I said. "That's why I had to go to the family meeting. I wanted their help with this."

Hunter frowned. "I thought you said the family meeting didn't go well."

"It didn't. My family thinks I'm too damaged to handle this case," I said, pulling out the stolen keycard. "They don't understand what it means to be disposable."

Hunter turned his head, studying my profile. "You know about being disposable."

I flipped the card between my fingers. "Everyone's so busy protecting me from myself. They want to treat me like I'm a delicate little kitten. Well, I'm not." I closed my fist around the badge before looking over at Hunter. "They've forgotten I have claws, too."

"Then let's remind them," he said and opened his door.

The service entrance opened smoothly thanks to Miranda's keycard. We slipped inside, and I pulled my hood up while handing Hunter a black bandana from my pocket. He tied it around the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible.

And that look? It made me hot for him in ways that I hadn't thought possible.

I tied my own bandana in place and led the way deeper into the building. The hallway stretched before us, emergency lighting casting everything in red. It reminded me of backstage at fashion shows. That charged darkness before stepping into the lights, when anything seemed possible.

Hunter moved beside me, surprisingly graceful despite the drugs. I matched his pace, and the synchronicity made me think of choreography. Of being paired with someone who knew how to move, how to use space, how to make danger look easy.

Come play, I thought, the same words I'd used watching Hunter from the funeral home window. Let's see what we can do together.

The records office was exactly what I'd expected. Rows of computer workstations, servers humming. Hunter moved to one while I positioned myself so I could see both him and the door.

He tried the keyboard, frowning. "Locked out. They terminated my access years ago."

I pulled out Miranda's keycard, flipping it over to show the password written in faded blue ink. "M!randa2024!"

Hunter looked at it, then at me. "People never learn."

"Lucky for us." I pulled out the cloning device and plugged it into the USB slot. "This'll copy everything."

The screen filled with billing records. Hunter navigated through directories, his movements still slightly slowed by the fentanyl, but his mind sharp. Over his shoulder, files scrolled past, my chest nearly touching his back. I could claim the cramped space made it necessary. We both knew better.

"Here. Claims under Wright's provider number."

Tyler's name appeared on the screen. My throat tightened, but I kept my voice steady. "Look at these addresses. Tyler's listed as '127 River Road, c/o Athens Outreach Center.'"

Hunter scrolled down. "Same address for a dozen others. Riverside Shelter, Haven House. They're all homeless."

The pattern crystallized as we clicked through records. Dozens of participants, all belonging to shelters. All receiving investigational drugs through sponsor-covered payments. All disposable in Wright's eyes.

"Here's Tyler's timeline," Hunter said. "December 15th emergency room visit. Adverse drug reaction. Sponsor-covered." He clicked forward. "December 20th, another trial visit. More investigational drugs."

The casual cruelty of it made my stomach turn.

"Look at this." I pulled up another file, my hand covering Hunter's on the mouse. "Three more deaths Wright covered up."

Hunter leaned closer to read. His breath was warm on my neck.

"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.

"There's something you should know," I said against his lips.

Hunter went very still, waiting.

"I'm trans."

Silence. Then: "Okay. That it?"

Relief crashed through me. "You're..."

"Still interested. Still want you." His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "I was a nurse. You think I haven't seen every kind of body?"

"Maybe, but..."

"Shut up," he said, and kissed me again.

This time was different. Slower. Deeper. His hand gentled in my hair, cradling instead of controlling. The kiss tasted like acceptance, like possibility, like maybe I could have this without it destroying me.

When we finally broke apart, we didn't move. Just stood there, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. Hunter's thumb traced my cheekbone with something like wonder.

"Fuck," he whispered.

"Yeah," I agreed.

His eyes searched mine, looking for something. Permission, maybe. Or confirmation that this was real, that I wanted it, that he hadn't just made a catastrophic mistake.

I answered by pulling him back down, slower this time. Purposeful. This kiss was a promise. A claim. An answer to every question we'd been dancing around since the funeral home.

Hunter made a sound low in his throat, somewhere between surrender and triumph. His hands slid down to my waist, pulling me flush against him.

The transfer bar hit 100% with a soft chime.

Neither of us moved to grab it.

"We should..." Hunter started.

"Not yet," I said against his mouth.

"Misha..."

"Five more seconds."

He gave me ten. Twenty. Would have given me more, but...

Footsteps.