Page 30 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

War nodded. "I'll check his electrolytes when he wakes up. He's lost a lot through sweating and vomiting. Might need potassium supplements."

The tone threw me. No judgment. No told-you-so's . Just medical assessment and next steps, as if Hunter were any other patient deserving of care.

Shepherd set his mug down harder than necessary. "And when he wakes up? When he starts using again?"

"Shepherd—" War warned.

"No." Shepherd's eyes stayed on me. "We're helping because you're family. But that doesn't mean we agree with your choices. That doesn't mean we think this ends well."

"I know," I said quietly.

"Do you?" Shepherd crossed his arms. "Because from where I'm standing, you're destroying yourself for someone who's going to break your heart the first time he gets a chance to use."

"Maybe," I admitted. "But that's my choice to make."

Something shifted in Shepherd's expression. Not approval. But perhaps... respect. The kind born from watching someone walk into fire with their eyes open.

"You know what you're signing up for," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"I do."

Shepherd studied me for a long moment, then nodded once. "Fine. Your choice. Your consequences." He pushed away from the counter. "But you're still family, which means when this goes to shit, we'll be here to pick up the pieces."

"I'm grateful," I said, and meant it.

"Don't be grateful yet." Shepherd moved toward the door, pausing in the threshold. "Just don't expect us to pretend this is a good idea."

After he left, War rounded the counter and handed me a blue sports drink, cap already twisted off.

"Nikita called us when he pulled you out of lockup.

Said you were insisting on going back to some van where you'd left an addict in withdrawal.

" His voice remained neutral, but something in his eyes had softened.

"Said you were ready to walk if he wouldn't drive you there. "

"How did Nikita even know I was there?" I asked, the drink forgotten in my hand. "I didn't call anyone. They took my phone."

War's mouth tightened at the corners. "You're lucky Nikita has half the force on his payroll. Someone recognized your name and called him directly."

"Why are you all helping now? After our fight?"

"Because you're still family." War's eyes held mine. "Making choices we don't agree with doesn't negate that. We can think you're being reckless and still care what happens to you."

"Even when those choices might destroy the funeral home?" I asked, voice hollow.

Shepherd's jaw tightened. "Wright's lawyers contacted us this morning. They're threatening civil suits—lost research, compromised trials. They're asking for three million."

Damn. That was more than the funeral home was worth.

"They want the files back," War added. "And they want you and Hunter to sign statements recanting everything. Admitting you broke in, stole materials, fabricated accusations."

"Which would mean Tyler's death gets swept under the rug," I said, bile rising in my throat. "Wright walks away clean."

"Yes." Shepherd's voice was flat.

"So, what do we do?"

War and Shepherd exchanged a look.

"We wait," War said finally. "Wright's betting you'll fold under pressure. But if they had solid ground, they'd have already moved. They're scared of what we have."

"Scared isn't beaten," Shepherd added. "But it's a start."

Eli appeared in the doorway, drowning in a black hoodie at least two sizes too big. "Hey," he said, and planted a kiss on Shepherd’s cheek.

Eli hugged me next. I melted into it, touch-starved from days of focus on Hunter. "You look like shit," he murmured. We settled on the floor, my head on his shoulder.

“Take care of him,” Shepherd said, and Eli nodded.

We sat in comfortable silence for several minutes after War and Shepherd left.

"War says you've been up for almost three days straight," Eli said finally. "He's worried about you."

"I'm fine," I mumbled.

"Sure you are." His fingers kept moving through my hair. "That's why you look like you've been hit by a truck."

I pinched his side lightly. "You're not supposed to agree with me looking like shit."

Eli's chest vibrated with a soft laugh. "Sorry. Next time I'll lie and say you look fabulous."

I tilted my head to look up at him. "You sure your Sir won't mind you cuddling with me?"

Eli snorted. "He's my Sir, not my master. And maybe, but he won't eat you." A pause. "I won't let him."

"That's reassuring," I replied dryly.

"Seriously though," Eli said, "he's worried about you. We all are."

"I know." I closed my eyes, letting his fingers work through the remaining tangles in my hair. "I'm worried about me too. But I can't leave him, Eli."

"I know." His arm tightened around me. "Just promise you won't forget to take care of yourself too."

I made a noncommittal sound, too tired to promise anything.

Eli's fingers tightened in my hair. "One thing at a time, Mish. Keep Hunter breathing. The rest... we'll figure it out together."

A lump formed in my throat, too big to swallow around. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Eli's fingers resumed their gentle rhythm in my hair. "I just set up a cot for you in the recovery room. Go rest," he murmured. "I'll wake you if anything changes."

I collapsed onto the cot and slept. When I woke, sunlight cut across my face. Hunter's bed was empty.

The heart monitor's steady beeping brought me back. Recovery room. Hunter.

I sat up too fast, blood rushing from my head. Hunter's bed was empty, sheets thrown back.

"Looking for me?"

Hunter stood in the bathroom doorway, one hand braced against the frame. Not hunched. Not shuffling. Standing with a rigid spine and cold eyes. He wore borrowed clothes—sweatpants and a t-shirt that hung loose on his frame.

"You're up."

"Surprised?" His voice had regained its edge. "Disappointed I didn't need your help?"

I swallowed the instinctive response. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to shower." His gaze swept over me, taking in my rumpled clothes, my tangled hair. "Long enough to think."

I stood, legs unsteady beneath me. "About what?"

Hunter's jaw tightened. "About what happened. What you did."

My chest constricted. "Hunter—"

"Don't." His hand sliced through the air between us. "I don't want your explanations or your apologies."

"What do you want?"

"I want to understand why you ignored my DNR."

"I couldn't let you go," I said finally, the words scraping my throat raw. "Not like that. Not thinking I'd abandoned you."

Hunter's laugh was harsh, brittle. "So it wasn't about me at all. It was about you. Your guilt. Your need to be the hero."

Heat crept up my neck. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" He took a step toward me, close enough that I could smell the soap on his skin. "You want to talk about fair?"

"I want to talk about anything other than watching you die."

"Fine. Let's talk about now."

"Now?" I repeated.

"Now that I'm alive against my will." His voice was steady, but his hands weren't. "Now that you've seen me at my worst. Now that you've watched me crawl back from the edge. What do you want now, Misha? After all that?"

The question caught me off guard. What did I want? I hadn't thought beyond keeping him alive, beyond proving I hadn't abandoned him. But standing here, inches from him, I knew it wasn't that simple. Not anymore.

"Nothing," I said, the lie bitter on my tongue.

Hunter stepped closer, invading my space until I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His proximity sent a wave of awareness through me, my body remembering his touch from days before. How his hands had mapped every inch of me, how my skin had burned beneath his fingers.

"Liar."

He moved fast, hands slamming the wall on either side of my head, caging me. A show of dominance without contact.

"Hunter," I breathed, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me intimidated. Instead, I let my gaze drop deliberately to his mouth, a silent challenge in my eyes when I looked back up.

"Tell me what you want." His voice roughened, dropped lower as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against my face. "You owe me that much."

I could have ducked under his arm. Could have pushed him away. His strength hadn't fully returned yet. Instead, I stayed where I was, tilting my chin up in defiance.

The challenge in his eyes sent heat spreading through my chest. I couldn't tell if he was baiting me or testing himself. If he wanted honesty or ammunition.

"I want you not to hate me," I said finally.

He pushed away from the wall, creating distance, but not before I saw his mask slip. Just for a second. Just enough to glimpse what lay beneath.

"I don't hate you, Misha." He exhaled slowly. "I wish I did. It would be easier."

I couldn't look away from his face: the shadows beneath his eyes, the stubble darkening his jaw, the curve of his mouth that I'd memorized during his fever dreams.

"I crossed a line," I said quietly. "I violated your choice. Your autonomy."

"Yes." No hesitation. No mercy.

"I'm not sorry." The words fell between us like stones. "I can't be sorry you're alive."

His eyes flashed with anger and something else.

Something hotter, more complicated. He stepped back into my space, not touching me but close enough that I could feel the heat of his body.

"And that's the problem, isn't it? You'd do it again.

You'd make the same choice. Even knowing what it cost me. "

"Yes." I leaned forward slightly. "I would."

Hunter's hand shot out suddenly, fingers wrapping around my wrist. Not painful, but firm. Inescapable. His thumb pressed against my pulse point, the rapid beat beneath my skin. The simple touch sent heat coursing through my veins.

"You think you know what's best for me." His tone of voice woke something primal and hungry in me. "You think you have the right to decide whether I live or die."

I didn't pull away. "I think I'd rather have you alive and hating me than dead because I didn't try."

His grip tightened. "I told you I don't hate you."

I couldn't read his expression. I couldn't tell if the darkness in his eyes was anger or desire. My skin burned where he touched me, awareness crackling between us like electricity.

"Let go of me," I said quietly, not meaning it.

He didn't. Instead, his thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of my wrist. The gesture was almost gentle, at odds with the tension radiating from his body. Each tiny movement sent sparks along my nerves, my body remembering other circles he'd traced, other places he'd touched.

"This doesn't change anything," he said, but his voice had roughened. "I haven't forgiven you."

"I know." I didn't move away, didn't try to break his hold. "I'm not asking you to."

His eyes dropped to my mouth, lingered there for a heartbeat too long before jerking back up.

I watched his throat work as he swallowed, the conflict written across his face.

My lips parted instinctively, breath quickening as I remembered the pressure of his mouth against mine, the way he'd claimed me before everything fell apart.

"I need..." he started, then stopped, jaw tightening.

I waited, caught in the gravity between us.

Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. Afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing was building in the charged space between our bodies.

My heart pounded against my ribs, and I wondered if he could feel it through the bare inches separating us, if he knew how much I craved his touch despite the anger still simmering between us.

His grip loosened on my wrist, but he didn't let go completely. Instead, his fingers slid down until they were barely touching mine. The contact was whisper-light yet profound, a connection that ran deeper than desire.

"I need time," he said finally, his voice strained. "I need space to figure out what happens next."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. His fingers were still touching mine, the barest point of contact that somehow was more intimate than anything we'd shared before.

"But right now," he continued, his eyes shifting, "right now, I—"

The door opened without warning. War stood in the threshold, medical bag in hand. He froze, taking in our proximity, the tension crackling between us.

Hunter dropped my hand like it burned him and stepped back, creating distance that stretched like miles after the inches that had separated us.

"Everything okay in here?" War asked, eyes moving between us.

"Fine," Hunter said, voice rough. "Just talking."

War's eyes settled on me, assessing. I tried to look normal, though my pulse still raced from whatever had just happened.

"I need to check Hunter's vitals," War said, still watching me. "You should get some air, Misha. You look flushed."

I nodded, moving toward the door on unsteady legs. As I passed Hunter, our eyes met briefly.

"We'll finish this later," he said.

The words followed me out the door, echoing in my head as I climbed the stairs. A promise. A threat. Something in between.