Page 27 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

I nodded, not breaking rhythm.

He immediately dialed. "War. Emergency. Walmart parking lot, north side. Overdose, respiratory depression, possible cardiac arrest. Narcan already given. Yes. Now."

Barely a minute after administering the Narcan, Hunter's body jerked violently. His back arched, limbs stiffening as his eyes flew open. He gasped for air, face contorting in confusion and pain.

"What—" he choked, immediately retching. His body convulsed as he vomited weakly onto the floor of the van. Sweat erupted across his skin even as he started shaking from chills.

His eyes darted wildly around the van, unfocused and panicked. He tried to sit up, then fell back, muscles spasming uncontrollably.

"No, no, no," he moaned, arms wrapping around himself as withdrawal seized every cell in his body at once. His teeth chattered violently. "Fuck, make it stop."

My stomach twisted. I'd saved his life, but thrown him back into agony. There was nothing to do but witness his pain until War arrived with proper medical help.

When his gaze finally found my face, there was no recognition at first. Just raw animal panic and pain.

"Hunter, it's me," I said, reaching for his hand.

He jerked away violently, his whole body recoiling. "Where am I? What's happening?" His voice cracked, words slurring together.

"You're safe. I came back. I didn't leave you."

"Misha?" The word sounded torn from his throat. He squinted at me, struggling to focus. "You... you left."

"I got arrested," I explained, hands hovering near him, afraid to touch. "I tried to get back to you. I swear I tried."

Hunter's body convulsed with another wave of withdrawal symptoms. His jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grinding. "Hurts. Everything hurts."

Nikita knelt beside us, his expression unreadable as he assessed Hunter's condition. "War is three minutes out. Lucky he was visiting Annie this morning. Otherwise, it would have been forty minutes from Columbus."

Hunter remained conscious but barely coherent, mumbling disjointed phrases between bouts of shivering and muscle spasms.

Another black SUV screeched into the parking lot minutes later. War jumped out, medical bag in hand, followed by Paxton. They raced to the van, War immediately taking control.

War's eyes swept the scene: Hunter barely breathing, my hands still wrapped around him, the raw desperation written across my tear-streaked face. Something shifted in War's expression—recognition. He'd seen me desperate before, after Roche. This was different. More focused. More personal.

"What did he take? How long ago?" War asked, checking Hunter's pupils with a penlight.

"Fentanyl, I think. I found him like this." My voice cracked on 'found.' "He has a DNR tattoo, but I gave him Narcan anyway. He woke up briefly, then the withdrawal hit hard."

War's hands stilled for just a second—the DNR detail registering, the violation acknowledged—before resuming his assessment. "Narcan was the right call," he said, but his eyes said: We'll discuss this later.

He pulled vials and syringes from his bag, working with the speed and confidence of someone who'd done this many times. "Pax, we need to move him to the SUV. On three."

Paxton's massive frame blocked the light as he leaned in, easily lifting Hunter's body.

"My van," I protested weakly.

"Leave it," Nikita said. "We'll have someone pick it up. This is faster."

In the SUV, War continued working on Hunter, starting an IV and administering fluids and medication.

"Where are we going?" I asked, gripping Hunter's hand.

"The funeral home recovery room," War replied, not looking up from his task. "It's closer, and we need to keep him monitored when the Narcan wears off."

My shoulders dropped a fraction. The secure room above the main floor after the rebuild was perfect for this situation. Private, equipped with medical supplies, and away from curious eyes. No hospital meant no questions neither of us could answer, and War was taking Hunter seriously as a patient.

"Hold this," War instructed, passing me an IV bag. "Keep it elevated."

The drive to the funeral home passed in tense silence. I kept my eyes fixed on Hunter's face, memorizing every detail as if he might disappear if I looked away. The curve of his jaw. The way his lashes looked against his cheeks. The lips I'd kissed just hours ago, now blue-tinged but warming.

I'd almost lost this. Almost lost him. And when he woke—if he woke fully—he might look at me with hate instead of want.

But he'd be alive to hate me. That would have to be enough.

His eyes remained open but unfocused, occasionally finding my face before darting away again. Each time he recognized me, his expression shifted between confusion, relief, and betrayal.

When we arrived, Paxton carried Hunter through the side entrance. The recovery room was sparse but equipped with a hospital bed, medical supplies, security monitors.

War immediately attached monitors, adjusted the IV, and checked Hunter's vitals again.

"He's stabilizing," War said after a moment. "The Narcan saved his life, but we'll need to watch him carefully. Fentanyl can outlast Narcan, and when it wears off, he could slip back into respiratory depression."

"Will he..." My voice caught. "Will he be okay?"

War's eyes finally met mine, his expression hardening. "Physically? Probably. But this is exactly what I warned you about, Misha. Addicts relapse. It's what they do. First opportunity, first moment of stress, and they're right back to using."

My chest tightened, lungs struggling for air as his judgment hung between us. "You don't understand what happened."

"I understand perfectly." War's voice was distant, detached. "This isn't about you. It's about the drugs. That's the thing you need to accept. The drugs will always come first. His brain chemistry is completely fucked."

"What about the investigation?" I asked. "What's happening with Wright?"

War's expression darkened. "Wright's team contacted River. They're demanding the return of all 'stolen property'—the files you took. Threatening to sue the funeral home." He adjusted the IV with mechanical movements. "River's pulling back. The family's pulling back. You've exposed us all."

"But the files prove—"

"The files prove you broke into a medical facility. Wright's lawyers will argue everything's inadmissible. And they'll use your arrest and your friend's overdose to paint you both as unstable, obsessed criminals."

The words landed like hammer blows. My vision blurred at the edges. Wright was winning, Tyler was slipping away, and I couldn't even think about it because Hunter was dying right here, right now.

"What can I do?"

"Stay with him if you insist. Talk to him." War's hands moved efficiently over the equipment. "The Narcan will wear off in thirty to ninety minutes, and the fentanyl might outlast it. We'll need to keep monitoring and possibly give more doses."

I nodded, pulling a chair close to the bed. "I'm not leaving him again."

War checked the monitors one final time, his mouth a tight line of disapproval. "The family is worried about you."

"I know." I didn't look away from Hunter.

"They're angry too. And after this stunt? Can't say I blame them."

"I know that too."

War packed his medical bag with sharp, efficient movements. "I'll come back to check his vitals in an hour. Try not to get emotionally attached to someone who'd choose chemicals over you without hesitation." He paused at the door. "Medical care only. That's all I'm offering here."

As War left the room, I collapsed into the chair beside Hunter's bed. My hand found his, fingers interlacing even though he was unconscious. Even though he might pull away when he woke. Even though I had no right to touch him after what I'd done.

I couldn't stop. Couldn't bear the distance.

His skin was warmer now, his breathing steadier. The monitors beeped a reassuring rhythm in the silent safe room.

What right did I have to save him? None. My need to prove I hadn't abandoned him had overridden his most personal choice. I'd stolen his autonomy as surely as Roche had stolen mine.

My thumb traced circles on his palm, the guilt spreading through me like poison.

Wright had spent my arrest hours moving pieces on a board I couldn't see. Restraining orders. Custody petitions. Legal threats. While I'd been handcuffed, he'd been dismantling our case.

I had saved Hunter's life by becoming what I feared most—someone who steals choice, who violates autonomy, who decides for others what's "best."

And in doing so, I might have lost Tyler's only chance at justice.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, knowing sorry meant nothing. Knowing he'd never forgive me. "I'm so fucking sorry."