Page 28 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

I always wondered what it'd be like to die. Turns out, it was peaceful. Being yanked back into my body? That's what hurt like hell.

The ceiling spun above me. Not the van. My throat burned raw. Every muscle screamed at once, spasming randomly. An IV stuck in my arm.

Alive. Still fucking alive when all I'd wanted was relief from the pain.

I knew without looking that Misha sat beside the bed. His presence filled the space. The weight of his guilt pressed down on me like a physical thing.

Good. Let him stew in it. Let him feel a fraction of what I was feeling.

"Hunter?" His voice floated somewhere to my left. "Are you with me?"

I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the uneven bumps in the plaster.

One. Two. Three. Anything to avoid looking at the asshole who'd dragged me back from peace.

Anything to avoid seeing the face I'd memorized, the eyes that had seen the worst of me and stayed anyway.

The only person in years who'd made me want to keep breathing. Until now.

I heard the soft clink of a cup, then a straw appeared in my peripheral vision, Misha's slender fingers wrapped around the plastic. Those same fingers that had mapped every inch of my skin just days ago. The memory made my stomach tighten with want I had no right to feel anymore.

"You need fluids," he said, voice gentle as if talking to a spooked animal. "Please."

That voice. Soft and smooth with a hint of accent. It still made my skin warm despite everything. Pissed me off how much I still wanted to hear him say my name.

I turned my head away, ignoring how the movement sent black dots dancing across my vision. The straw retreated without further comment.

My skin crawled. Sweat soaked the sheets while chills wracked my frame. Every nerve ending screamed.

Being alive hurt so much worse than dying.

The hit had been merciful. Peaceful. Just enough fentanyl to stop the pain. Just warmth spreading through my veins, my consciousness floating above my failing body. Until the Narcan ripped me back.

My left leg started bouncing without my permission. The movement sent waves of nausea through my gut. I gritted my teeth as warm liquid trickled down my thigh. Great. I was pissing myself now. The indignity of withdrawal was complete.

"Where am I?" The words scraped out of my throat before I could stop them.

"The funeral home. Recovery room." Misha shifted closer, relief coloring his voice now that I'd finally spoken. "War set up an IV."

The funeral home. Laskin territory.

"How long?" Each word cost me, but I needed to know.

"Three hours since... since we found you."

The skin over my DNR/DNI tattoo itched like fire. I got that ink so I could die my way. So nobody could force me to stay. Yet here I was.

I even told Misha what it meant, and he'd ignored it anyway.

"You should have let me go," I whispered.

Silence stretched between us.

When Misha finally spoke, his voice cracked. "I couldn't."

My hands clenched into fists, nails digging half-moons into my palms. "Not your call."

"Hunter..."

"Don't." The word came out as a growl. "Don't fucking touch me."

I hadn't seen him reach for me, but I could feel his hand hovering near mine. He withdrew without making contact.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No, you're not." My eyes finally cut to his, taking in the dark circles beneath them, the tear tracks on his cheeks, the desperation in his gaze. "You got what you wanted. A chance to play hero. To feel better about yourself."

Pain flashed across his face. Good. Let him hurt too.

"And meanwhile, Wright's probably destroying everything," I added, bitterness coating each word. "Tyler's case is probably fucked too because of you."

My body seized suddenly, muscles contracting without warning. My back arched off the bed, jaw clenching so hard my teeth might crack. A sound escaped me, half groan, half scream.

Warm hands were suddenly on my shoulders, trying to steady me through the spasm. I jerked away violently once it passed.

"I said don't fucking touch me!" I snarled.

Misha retreated, hands raised in surrender. "War said the muscle spasms would get worse before they got better."

He pushed his hair back from his forehead, the movement drawing my attention to the slender curve of his wrist. I hated how my eyes tracked him. My body's betrayal was another violation.

The IV itched like hell. Then the smell hit me. Bleach. Disinfectant. Death.

Her hand was cold through my gloves. Her fingernails had turned blue overnight. No matter how high we cranked the oxygen, her sats kept dropping.

Across the room, her husband and daughters watched through an iPad propped on a rolling stand. Their faces pressed against their screens at home. Useless. Helpless. Watching her die while I was the only one allowed in the room.

I leaned close enough so that she could hear me through all the barriers. Through my shield, through my mask, through her oxygen mask.

"It's okay to let go."

Her husband's scream through the iPad speaker still echoes sometimes.

Just like the soft click of our front door when I staggered home at 3 AM, high out of my mind.

The scent of ginger and garlic still hung in the air from Mom's earlier cooking. She turned from the sink, taking in my bloodshot eyes and unsteady stance. Dad's voice came from the dining table, where family photos stood next to Mom's worn Bible, still open to Psalms.

"We didn't cross an ocean for this," Dad said. "You need help." Mom folded clothes into a duffel bag, tears streaming. They'd found a treatment place forty minutes away.

"You can't stay here like this," Dad added. His voice wasn't even angry. Just tired. Defeated. "We can't watch you kill yourself. You dishonor everything we sacrificed."

Two days. That's how long I lasted in rehab. Two fucking days of group therapy and affirmations and prayers. People told me to just "ride out" the withdrawal like it was a wave at the beach instead of my body eating itself alive.

I walked out when the night nurse stepped away. Forty-eight hours of hell and I was done. Feelings and hopes and prayers weren't enough to stop the withdrawal from hurting.

I dragged myself back to the house two days later, backpack hanging off one shoulder. Dad answered the door, with Mom standing behind him in the hallway. His expression stopped me cold. No anger in his features. Something worse. His eyes dulled with disappointment, shoulders slumped in defeat.

"You can't come back," he said, one hand gripping the doorframe. "Not until you're sober. Not until you mean it."

The backpack strap cut into my shoulder. One bag. Enough clothes for three days. My old nurse ID badge I couldn't bear to throw away, clipped to the side pocket. Nothing else.

The porch boards creaked under my feet. The cold night air stung against my wet cheeks. I stood there like an idiot, listening for footsteps that never came. The door never opened again.

Nobody stays. Nobody comes back. They just leave. Or they make you leave. Same fucking difference.

A sound jolted me back to the present. Quiet sniffling from across the room. Misha disappeared into the bathroom, shoulders hunched, hand covering his mouth.

The door closed behind him, but the walls were thin enough that I could hear him crying. Not dramatic sobbing. Something worse. Quiet, desperate weeping, like he was trying not to make noise.

Something twisted in my chest. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the sound of his suffering cut through my rage in a way I hadn't expected.

I'd spent years watching people suffer, measuring pain on a scale of one to ten while offering meager comfort in the form of morphine and platitudes. Years of learning to compartmentalize, to build walls between my patients' agony and my own emotional stability.

But those walls had crumbled long ago, washed away by fentanyl and failure.

The bathroom door opened after several minutes. Misha emerged, face carefully composed, eyes red-rimmed but dry. He moved quietly to the far side of the room, keeping his distance.

"Stop crying," I growled.

He froze, back still to me. "I wasn't."

"Yes, you were."

His shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that," I snapped. "Does it make you feel better? Does it fix anything?"

He turned slowly to face me, arms wrapped around himself. "No. It doesn't. But I don't know what else to say."

That caught me off guard. I'd expected defense, justification, some speech about how he'd saved my life. Not agreement.

"Why'd you do it, then?"

Misha crossed the room cautiously, stopping several feet from the bed. "Because I couldn't let you die thinking I'd left you alone."

My chest tightened. "But you did leave. You were gone for fucking hours."

"I got arrested." His voice cracked. "At Walmart. They caught me."

Arrested. The word circled in my brain, not quite connecting. "What?"

"The police were waiting for me at the checkout.

The clinic break-in... they had camera footage, knew exactly who to look for.

" His hands twisted together. "They confiscated my phone and refused to let me make a call.

I spent hours in the interrogation room.

I kept telling them someone was waiting for me, that you needed help.

They didn't care. Then Nikita Volkov showed up and somehow made the charges disappear.

I came straight back to you as soon as I could. "

The anger drained away, replaced by shame. Then relief so powerful it made my eyes burn.

He hadn't left me. Not by choice.

No, I couldn't let this go. Couldn't let the anger slip away just because he had a good excuse for being gone. He'd still violated my DNR.

I gripped the fury like a lifeline, trying to stoke it back to life. But it kept dissolving, melting away under the weight of one undeniable truth: Misha had fought to reach me. Had refused to accept abandonment. Had chosen me when everyone else had chosen to walk away.

The war between rage and relief tore me apart.

My limbs jerked like a marionette's, with no control, no rhythm. A ripple of pain knifed through me, sharp enough to blind me for a second. Sweat poured down my face. I might have blacked out for a moment.

When I came back, Misha was still there, looking scared.

"I waited for hours," I finally managed.

"I know." His voice dropped. "And when I finally got there, you were..." He couldn't finish. "Not like that. Not alone."

"It still wasn't your choice to make." The words lacked the heat they'd held before.

"No." He took another step closer. "But I made it anyway. Because for once in your life, I wanted you to know that someone came back."

My tongue felt thick. "I'm still mad at you," I said finally.

"You have every right to be. I violated your choice. Your autonomy." He met my eyes.

"You had no right."

"No," he agreed. "I didn't. But I made that choice. I'd rather live with your hatred than without you at all."

The words hit like a punch. Simple. Honest. Devastating.

"What if I can't forgive you?"

"Then I'll accept that." His eyes held mine. "As long as you're alive to hate me, I'll live with the consequences."

My body shuddered with another wave of withdrawal symptoms, muscles contracting painfully. This time I didn't push him away when his hand landed on my arm.

"I don't forgive you," I said, even as I let his hand stay where it was. "Not yet."

Misha nodded. "I understand. But I'm not going anywhere. You're mine to protect now, whether you like it or not."

Another wave of withdrawal hit, the tremors making my teeth chatter. The memory of being alone in that van, convinced he'd abandoned me like everyone else, clawed at my throat.

"What about the files?" I asked suddenly. "Did Wright get them back?"

"No. They're safe." Misha's expression darkened. "But his lawyers are fighting us. Trying to use the law like a hammer."

The shame burned hotter. My overdose had given Wright ammunition.

"So I fucked everything up."

"No." Misha moved closer. "We're still fighting. But right now, you need to heal."

Misha didn't say anything else. Just took my hand and held it.

I didn't have the strength to push him away again. Didn't want to. His hand was warm. Real. Alive.

We stayed like that, connected by nothing but skin against skin, while my body fought its way through hell. Neither of us spoke again, but something had shifted in the silence.

I wasn't ready to forgive him. I wasn't sure I ever would be.

But I was here. Breathing. Hurting. Alive.

Another spasm, weaker now. My body was slowly winning its war.

"Stay," I said, before I could stop myself.

Something shifted in Misha's expression. Hope, maybe. "Okay."

"But don't—" I forced the words out. "Don't pretend everything's fine. It's not."

"I know." He settled into the chair, not touching. Just present. "I'm here for whatever you can give. Even if it's just anger."

I nodded. My hand moved almost without permission, reaching toward his.

He took it immediately, grip gentle but firm.

We stayed like that. Connected. Furious. Grateful. Terrified.

All of it at once.