Page 26 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

The handcuffs bit into my wrists as I shifted in the chair. A clock ticked somewhere behind me.

Hunter consumed my thoughts. He was alone in that van, thinking I'd abandoned him.

A detective entered with coffee and a manila folder.

"Michael Vasiliev." He mangled the pronunciation, dropping a thick file on the table. "Breaking and entering, theft of confidential medical records, assaulting a police officer." He sipped his coffee. "You've been busy."

I stared at a point just past his left ear. "I want a lawyer."

"Sure, sure. We'll get to that." He flipped open the folder. "Right now, I want to know who helped you."

My throat closed. If I gave up Hunter, they'd go after him too. A homeless addict would make the perfect scapegoat: easy to blame, easy to convict, impossible to defend.

"I said lawyer."

"Give us a name, and things get easier for you."

"Lawyer," I repeated.

He sighed, leaning back. "You're looking at serious time. Federal charges. HIPAA violations carry hefty penalties."

"Get me a goddamn lawyer."

The detective pulled out photos, spreading them across the table.

Me and Hunter at Wright's office, grainy security stills.

"Dr. Wright's been very cooperative. Very concerned.

" He tapped one of the images. "He says you've been harassing him.

That your friend has mental health issues, a history of violence. "

My stomach turned. Wright was spinning this, turning us from investigators into stalkers.

"He's worried about Mr. Song. Suggested we do a welfare check." The detective's smile didn't reach his eyes. "For his own safety."

They wanted to find Hunter. Arrest him. Use his addiction to destroy our credibility, making everything we'd discovered look like the delusions of unstable criminals.

"Lawyer," I said, voice flat.

The door opened again, and a different officer entered: younger, clean-shaven, his badge reading Hatfield. "Still not talking?"

I stared at the coffee cup. The liquid had stopped steaming. "I want a lawyer."

"Look, we know Dr. Wright runs clinical trials. We know someone's been threatening him." He sat across from me. "Give us something, and maybe we can work something out. Otherwise, you're looking at years, not months."

Years. Hunter would be long dead by then.

"I want a lawyer."

Hatfield shook his head. "Suit yourself."

The door closed.

Time stretched. The clock showed 7:45 AM. Almost three hours since I'd walked out of that Walmart thinking I'd be back in twenty minutes.

My leg bounced frantically under the table, the metal cuff biting deeper with each movement. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, each second a hammer blow.

Hunter was alone. Suffering. Thinking I'd left him like everyone else.

My hands trembled. While I sat here, Hunter was choosing death.

Because I'd promised twenty minutes and delivered hours of silence.

They had offered water hours ago. I hadn't answered. Now my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, punishment for my own stubbornness.

The third time the door opened, I didn't look up.

"Michael." The voice cut through everything, clean and precise, with that unmistakable accent.

Nikita Volkov stood in the doorway in a charcoal suit, his slicked-back hair and expensive watch catching the fluorescent light.

"Get those off him," he said to someone in the hall.

An officer unlocked the cuffs.

"Am I hallucinating?" I asked, rubbing my wrists.

"Unfortunately not." Nikita straightened his tie. "The charges are being dropped."

"How?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to." He gestured toward the door. "Let's go."

I knew what it cost when the vory intervened.

I stumbled to my feet, legs weak from sitting too long. My entire body screamed for action. Hunter. I needed to get to Hunter.

"My things..."

"In the car."

I followed him through the station. Officers looked away as we passed, avoiding looking at Nikita. Whatever strings he'd pulled, whatever favors he'd called in, they'd cost something. Everything did with Nikita.

Outside, the world was bright with morning sun reflecting off snow. I squinted, disoriented. How long had I been inside? Hours? A day?

A black Bentley idled at the curb. Nikita opened the rear door. "Get in."

The car interior was warm. My wrists throbbed where the cuffs had bitten. But that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was getting back to Hunter as soon as possible.

Nikita slid in beside me. The driver pulled away from the curb without being told where to go.

"Annie will be relieved," Nikita said, not looking at me. "She's been worried."

The words barely registered. My skin itched with the need to move, to run, to find Hunter. "What time is it?"

Nikita checked his watch. "Half-past nine."

"Almost five hours?" Panic surged through me. "I've been gone almost five hours."

"Yes." Nikita adjusted his tie. "I'm taking you home."

"No. I need to go to Walmart."

Nikita turned to face me, eyes cold. "This isn't the time for shopping, Michael. Whatever toiletries you need can wait. The family wants you home where you're safe."

"Hunter's alone. He needs me." My voice cracked, desperation scraping raw on the way up. "Either take me to Walmart or let me out here. I'll walk."

"Wright's lawyers filed paperwork this morning," Nikita said. "Restraining order against you and your friend. They're also petitioning for custody of Tyler's body, claiming research protocols give them authority."

"That's—"

"Legal? Probably not. But it'll take time to fight, and Wright's buying time. Every day Tyler stays in limbo is another day Wright can erase evidence, threaten witnesses, build his defense." Nikita's hands tightened on the wheel. "He's been busy while you've been in lockup."

The words hit like blows, but they couldn't penetrate. Tyler mattered. The investigation mattered. But right now, Hunter was dying alone in a Walmart parking lot.

Nikita sighed and then nodded to the driver, who changed direction at the next light.

"This obsession with Wright is dangerous enough. But this... connection to a homeless addict?" He shook his head. "You're making yourself vulnerable to someone who will choose drugs over you every time."

"You don't know him."

"I know addiction. I know what it does to people. To families." He looked out the window. "The Laskins took you in. They protected you. And this is how you repay them?"

"I survived Roche's laboratory and Paris," I said. "I don't need another father figure telling me what's best for me. I'm an adult who can make my own choices."

Nikita's eyes widened slightly before his expression hardened. "I've burned bridges today that can't be rebuilt,” he said finally. “Don't make me regret it."

"I appreciate what you did back there," I said, my tone softening slightly. "But I won't be treated like a child who needs to be saved from himself."

Nikita studied me with new interest, reassessing. "You remind me of War at your age. Stubborn. Determined." His mouth curved into something almost like respect. "Just remember, Michael, everyone needs saving sometimes. Even those of us who survive the impossible."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The car turned into the Walmart parking lot. My eyes scanned desperately for the van. There. Still parked where I'd left it. No ambulance. No cops. A tiny spark of hope flickered inside me.

I threw open the door and ran to the van.

The smell hit first. Sweat. Vomit. Blood. The sour reek of a body in distress.

Hunter lay slumped in the driver's seat, head tilted back, lips blue-tinged in the winter light. A syringe lay on the floor beside him. His chest barely moved, breaths shallow and irregular.

"No, no, no." I crawled inside, heart shattering in my chest. My fingers trembled as I pressed them to his neck. His pulse fluttered weakly, too slow. "Hunter. Hunter, please."

His lips were turning darker, skin gray-tinged. He was dying right in front of me thinking I'd abandoned him like everyone else.

The image of his DNR/DNI tattoo flashed through my mind, stark black letters I'd traced with my fingers the night before.

His choice. His body. His terms. But what was I supposed to do? Let him die?

My hands hovered, unable to move. Paralyzed.

This was exactly what Roche had done. He’d systematically violated my consent for over a year. I'd sworn I would never become that. Never override someone's choices about their own body. Never decide for someone else what they could handle, what they should want, what was "best" for them.

But the alternative was letting him die thinking I'd abandoned him.

I couldn't do it.

Even knowing I was wrong. Even knowing he'd hate me.

I found the Narcan in the glove box, hands shaking as I tore open the orange case.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, already reaching for him. Tears blurred my vision, falling onto his face. "You can hate me later. Please just hate me later."

I pressed the spray into his nostril and pushed the plunger. The medication hissed into his nasal cavity.

I pulled Hunter from the driver's seat, laying him flat on the van floor. I leaned down, my ear near his mouth, watching his chest. Almost no movement. Just occasional shallow gasps. Not enough.

"NIKITA!" I screamed, voice ripping through the winter air. "HELP ME!"

I positioned the heel of my hand on his sternum. Locked my elbow. Pushed down hard.

The first compression shocked me with its resistance. Hunter's chest barely gave under my weight. Was I doing this right? Annie had shown us once on a mannequin, but this was different. This was flesh and bone. Living tissue that wouldn't bounce back like plastic.

"Don't you dare die," I grunted, pushing again. Harder this time. Something shifted beneath my palms with a sickening pop. A rib? Had I broken something? Was I killing him trying to save him?

My shoulders screamed from the effort, but I didn't stop.

Footsteps crunched through the snow, and Nikita appeared at the van door.

"Narcan?" he asked sharply, already pulling out his phone.