Page 29 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

Misha

Fluorescent lights cast shadows beneath Hunter's eyes. My back ached from hours in the chair, but I couldn't leave.

The tremors never stopped completely, just ebbed and flowed like tides. Sometimes they were mild enough he could speak. Other times they took over completely, his limbs jerking so violently the bed frame rattled against the wall.

"Water," he rasped around three AM, voice raw from hours of dry heaving. His lips were cracked, blood crusted at the corners.

I reached for the cup on the bedside table. "Here," I said, sliding one arm beneath Hunter's shoulders to lift him slightly. His skin burned against mine, fever-hot beneath a sweat-soaked gown.

He managed three sips before turning away. I caught a drop on his lip with my thumb. His eyes flickered open, surprised, before he pulled back.

Ten minutes later, those three sips came back up, along with bile and nothing else. I held the basin while his body convulsed. When it passed, I wiped his face, neck, and chest where the gown had fallen open.

Even like this, he was striking. I'd done this to him, and I'd do it again.

Selfish. Possessive. Wrong.

But mine.

"Don't," he muttered, trying to push my hand away, but his coordination was shot. His fingers brushed against my wrist instead, sliding down to catch against my pulse point.

I withdrew my hand. "Sorry," I said automatically, then caught myself. "No, I'm not. You need help."

His eyes met mine, bloodshot and furious and desperate all at once. "Fuck you."

"Maybe later," I replied, the quip automatic. "When you can stand up without falling over."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. Then another spasm seized him. His back arched off the bed, tendons in his neck standing out like cables. A sound escaped him, half groan, half scream, animal and raw.

I grabbed his hand without thinking, offering the only comfort I could. His fingers closed around mine, grip tightening until my bones ground together. I didn't pull away, letting him squeeze until my fingers went numb.

When it passed, his grip loosened but didn't break.

We didn't acknowledge it. We didn't let go.

Small victories.

I watched him sleep, exhaustion pulling at every muscle in my body. Three days since I'd slept properly. It had been forty-eight hours since I'd eaten a real meal. My hands shook as I brushed damp hair from his forehead. I was running on fumes and stubbornness.

Good thing I had plenty of both.

Hunter's breathing steadied for the first time in hours. I allowed myself to check my phone.

Seventeen missed calls from War. Twelve from River. And three from numbers I didn't recognize—probably lawyers.

One voicemail. I hit play, volume low.

"Dr. Wright will drop charges if you return the materials within twenty-four hours. Otherwise, we proceed with prosecution."

The message ended. I deleted it.

Around four AM, the fever dreams started. Hunter thrashed, fighting invisible demons—psychological horrors the drugs had kept buried.

"No!" The word burst from him suddenly, his back arching off the bed. His arms flailed wildly, hands grasping at nothing.

Guttural sounds tore from his throat as he thrashed against the sheets. His face contorted in pain and terror, tears leaking from beneath closed eyelids.

His arm shot out violently, nearly ripping the IV from his vein. Without thinking, I lunged forward, grabbing his wrist to stop him from tearing out the catheter.

"Hunter, no!"

His other hand shot up, gripping my throat, eyes wild and unseeing. His fingers tightened for a terrifying moment, his face twisted in fear and rage.

"Hunter," I choked out, not fighting against his grip. "It's Misha."

His grip loosened. His eyes focused on my face, confusion replacing the fear as he began to recognize me.

"Misha?" His hand fell away from my throat.

"I'm here." I reached out slowly, taking his hand in mine. "You were having a nightmare."

The contact seemed to anchor him. The last traces of terror faded from his eyes as he squeezed my fingers.

"I’m right here," I assured him, squeezing. "You're safe."

"Don't leave again." His voice cracked on the words.

"I won't," I promised, meaning it more than he knew. "I'm staying right here."

He nodded once, eyes slipping closed, but his grip on my hand remained tight. Another spasm wracked him, less intense but still painful to watch.

When it passed, he didn't open his eyes again, just lay there breathing raggedly.

"I'd do it again," I whispered, too quiet for him to hear. "I'd bring you back every time."

The worst hit just before dawn. Hunter's temperature spiked suddenly to 103.5. His body convulsed with seizure-like spasms, limbs jerking without rhythm. The sounds that tore from his throat weren't human anymore.

The numbers climbed higher. Fear clawed at my throat.

"War!" I shouted, voice cracking. "He needs help!"

War rushed into the room, already assessing. He took Hunter's temperature again, jaw tightening at the reading.

"103.8," he said, professional instincts overriding any personal judgment. Ice packs appeared from a nearby cooler—groin, armpits, neck. "Major arteries. Cool the blood directly."

He cranked the IV to maximum flow, hanging a fresh liter of cold saline. His hands moved efficiently, preparing syringes.

"He's in pain," I said, voice tight as I watched Hunter thrash against the ice packs.

War's eyes met mine. "Yes. And we're doing everything we can to manage it." He drew up the medication. "This'll help with the spasms and bring the temp down. But if he hits 104, we're taking him to a hospital whether he likes it or not."

"Please," I said, not caring how desperate I sounded.

War nodded once, injecting the medication into Hunter's IV line. "The diazepam should stop the seizure activity. Acetaminophen for the fever. We'll monitor closely."

After twenty minutes, the monitor showed Hunter's temperature beginning to drop. 103.5. 103.1. 102.7. His breathing eased as the medication took effect.

Gradually, his rigid muscles relaxed, though the tremors continued, less violent but still present. His eyelids fluttered, then closed completely as he slipped into fitful sleep for the first time in hours.

"Thank you," I whispered.

War nodded and made a note in his notebook. "We'll need to watch him closely. A fever this high during withdrawal can be dangerous, but he's responding to treatment. His body is fighting hard."

I stood to sink into the chair, but my vision grayed at the edges. Too fast. Should have eaten, should have slept. I gripped the bed frame until the dizziness passed, legs too weak to hold me.

War's hand steadied my elbow. "You need to rest."

"I'm fine," I lied, the words automatic. My body betrayed me immediately, a tremor running through my hands as I pushed hair back from my face.

War's mouth tightened, but he didn't call me on the obvious lie. "I'll check on him again in two hours. Call if anything changes."

After he left, the room stretched both larger and smaller. I focused on Hunter's face, memorizing every detail.

Even in sleep, pain etched lines around his mouth, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. I reached out, brushing damp hair from his forehead, letting my fingers trail along his temple, down the sharp line of his jaw. His skin still burned, despite the meds.

"I'm here," I whispered, though I wasn't sure he could hear me. "I'm not going anywhere."

The promise hung in the air between us, heavy with everything unsaid. I hadn't forgiven myself for what I'd done. For violating his choice, for forcing him back into a body that brought nothing but pain. But I couldn't regret it either.

Morning crept in around the edges of the blackout curtains, pale light seeping into the room.

The sun brought no warmth, just a gray winter glow that made everything look washed out and fragile.

Hunter slept on, though his rest wasn't peaceful.

Small twitches ran through his limbs at random intervals, his fingers clenching and unclenching against the sheets.

My stomach growled, a sharp reminder that I hadn't eaten since before my arrest. Hours had blurred together, measured only in Hunter's breaths and the beeping of machines.

I glanced at Hunter, hesitant to leave even for a few minutes. His breathing had steadied somewhat, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed almost normal. The monitor showed his heart rate had dropped to ninety beats per minute.

I stood, muscles screaming in protest. Just a quick trip to the kitchen. Five minutes, tops. Then straight back.

"I'll be right back," I whispered, even though I thought he couldn't hear me.

The stairs creaked under my feet as I made my way down to the main floor of the funeral home. My legs were wooden, disconnected. The building smelled of polish and disinfectant, comforting in its familiarity.

Voices came from the kitchen. I pushed through despite my disheveled appearance. War stood at the counter with a protein bar, dark circles under his eyes.

He glanced up as I entered, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he handed me the protein bar and gestured toward the refrigerator, where sports drinks lined the door.

"Thanks," I said, too tired for pride.

Shepherd loomed in the corner, coffee mug in hand, watching me with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle.

I braced for the lecture I knew was coming. The reminder that he'd warned me, that they all had, that Hunter was exactly the liability they'd predicted.

Instead, he sipped his coffee and said nothing.

I tore open the protein bar. The first bite tasted like sawdust. I forced it down.

"How's he doing?" War asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Sleeping finally," I said between bites. "The muscle relaxant helped. He's not seizing anymore."