Page 31 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

January cold cut through my clothes. Seven days clean. The physical symptoms had faded, but the cravings remained. Not the desperate clawing of withdrawal. Just presence. A voice that never shut up, always suggesting I knew what would feel better than this cigarette, this conversation, this moment.

War had practically shoved me outside. "Fresh air and sunlight," he'd said, like I was a fucking houseplant.

Some sunlight.

The sky stretched gray above me, clouds heavy with the promise of more snow.

The Laskin funeral home loomed behind. I'd rather freeze to death than go back inside, where everyone stared at me with that mixture of pity and judgment.

Poor Hunter, the broken addict, monitored like a toddler near traffic.

Why did it have to be Misha watching me? Everything would be simpler if we stayed away from each other. The memory of his body beneath mine kept surfacing. Fucking traitor.

The van sat at the edge of the lot, back doors open. Smoke curled from inside. Maybe Misha had something stronger. My boots crunched through the frozen grass until I stood at the open doors.

Misha sat cross-legged on the bed, transformed. Tight jeans, a sheer top, diamond chains. The Parisian model, not the exhausted caretaker, and holy fuck was he hot.

"Hey," I managed.

His head snapped down, eyes finding mine. Something crossed his face too quickly to read. "Thought we weren't talking," he said, but the edge was missing from his voice.

I shrugged. "What's with the..." I gestured vaguely at his entire appearance.

There was a beat of tense silence before he answered. "Sometimes I need to remember who I was. Who I am." He took a slow drag.

"I used to do that with my scrubs after I got fired." The confession surprised even me.

His eyes met mine; recognition passed between us. Two people clinging to the identities that defined them, even after those identities had been stripped away.

"You want to hit this?" He held up the joint, an invitation that seemed like more than just weed.

I climbed in, settling against the opposite wall, aware of every movement.

I reached back and pulled the doors closed, the click of the latch giving us privacy from the world outside.

The van smelled like expensive cologne, weed, and something uniquely Misha that spiked my pulse.

Our knees almost touched in the confined space.

"War says your liver enzymes are improving. Kidneys too," Misha said, passing me the joint.

"Gold star for my internal organs." My fingers brushed his as I took it, electricity sparking where our skin touched.

Silence settled, not exactly comfortable but not hostile either. Just two exhausted people sharing space and smoke, too tired to keep up the anger.

"Why are you out here instead of inside?" I asked finally, needing to break the tension.

Misha shrugged. "The van is safer."

I tried to reconcile this version of him with the man who held my hand through withdrawal and fought his family for me. Both were Misha, but it was like discovering a new facet of someone I thought I knew.

His phone buzzed insistently. Once. Twice. Three times.

He pulled it out, jaw tightening. "Wright's legal team." He showed me the screen—missed calls, unread messages. "They've been calling all day."

"What do they want?"

"Same thing. Return the files, sign statements saying we fabricated everything, make Tyler's death go away." He silenced the phone. "Nikita’s handling it for now. Filing a bunch of injunctions and other paperwork to buy time."

"And if that doesn’t work?"

Misha's eyes hardened. "Then they'll come for us directly. But not today." His expression softened slightly. "Today, I just want to stop thinking about Wright. About Tyler. About all of it."

I understood that need. The desperate desire to turn off the fear, the anger, the guilt.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"The cigarettes don't hit the same," I admitted. "Nothing does."

Misha nodded. "After Roche, food tasted wrong for months. Touch burned. Music sounded flat."

"What changed?"

"Who says it did?"

Our eyes met, and the air between us thickened.

He sighed and looked away. "I guess I did. When something happens to you, something like what happened to me, your life splits into three parts. There's a before and an after. Those parts are easy to define, easy to deal with. It's the in-between that's hard to move on from. It's like…"

"Like standing in a doorway to a room you desperately want to enter. But there's an invisible wall only you can see." I lowered the joint and stared at it. "Sorry. I get philosophical when I'm stoned, I guess."

"No," Misha said. "You're right. That's exactly what it is."

I passed the joint back to him, and our eyes met.

"I still want it," I said. "Every minute of every day. It's all I think about."

"I know."

"Do you?"

Misha looked down at his hands. "I think about Roche. About what he did. About how the drugs made everything float away." His voice dropped lower. "Sometimes I miss that floating. The disconnect. The... absence."

My chest tightened. "Yeah."

The joint burned down between us, passing back and forth in silence. Misha's knee rested against mine, the contact sending warmth up my leg. I didn't move away.

He passed the joint back one last time. I couldn't look away from the curve of his throat as he tilted his head back, exposing the elegant line of his neck.

"You're staring," he murmured, eyes meeting mine through the haze of weed smoke.

"Hard not to."

Then his hand settled on my thigh, and all that anger transformed into something else entirely.

Or maybe it didn't transform. Maybe it just coexisted. Fury and desire, resentment and need. I was still mad at him. Still hadn't forgiven the DNR violation. Still wasn't sure I could trust him not to override my choices again.

But I also wanted him with an intensity that made my hands shake.

"We don't have to talk about it," he said.

"This doesn't fix anything."

"I know."

"I didn't ask for forgiveness, mon loup." His breath ghosted across my lips.

"Then what do you want?" My fingers tightened in his hair, holding him in place as we hovered on the edge of something inevitable.

Misha smirked and said something low in French. I didn't need a translation. His eyes said enough. He wanted a fight, or a fuck. Maybe both.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a fucking brat?" I growled against his ear, yanking his head back to expose his throat. My lips brushed the sensitive skin below his jaw as I spoke.

His eyes darkened, a smirk playing on his lips. "Moi? Never," he lied.

The last thread of restraint snapped. I yanked him forward, crashing my lips against his. His fingers twisted in my hair, yanking sharply while I forced him back against the wall of the van. Our mouths clashed, neither yielding as teeth scraped lips and tongues battled.

He fought back, biting my lower lip hard. I retaliated by pinning both his wrists above his head with one hand, my other hand claiming his jaw, forcing him to meet my gaze.

"Think you're in charge here?" I growled against his mouth, squeezing his jaw just hard enough to watch his pupils dilate.

He answered by rolling his hips against mine, the friction making me groan despite myself. "Of course I am."

I released his jaw only to slide my hand down to his throat, thumb pressing gently against his pulse.

His eyes widened, and his whole body went rigid. "Not there," he whispered in a voice that sounded so small and wrong, I yanked my hand away.

"Shit, I'm sorry."

He shook his head, taking a deep breath. "Don't stop," he said, voice steadier. "Just... not there. Not today. Bad memories."

I nodded. My thumb traced his cheekbone instead, and I pressed my forehead against his. "Where?"

He took my hand and slid it beneath the hem of his shirt. "Anywhere else. Everywhere else."

I dragged my nails across his ribs, making him arch and curse. Then I captured his mouth again, kissing him until the tension drained from his body.

I recognized trouble the moment I registered his smile. He put his hands on my chest and shoved. I landed ass-first on the mattress, and before I could react, he was already on top of me.

He caught my wrists, pinning them. "No touching until I say so.

" The command sent heat through me. Surrendering felt right—like penance.

He pulled off his shirt. The diamond chains caught the light, perfect against his skin.

I sat up and yanked off my shirt. The look in his eyes as he took in my bare chest made my throat dry.

"Better," he murmured, leaning down to bite at my collarbone, hard enough to mark.

I fumbled with his belt, desperate for more. He let me struggle for a moment before batting my hands away and stripping off his jeans. Fuck, he wasn't even wearing underwear.

I kicked off my boots and shoved my jeans down. His eyes darkened as he took in my naked body, gaze lingering on my cock, already half-hard against my stomach.

He climbed back onto the bed to straddle my thighs.

"Leave the chains on," I said, breathless.

"If you insist." He wrapped his hand around my cock, squeezing just enough to make my breath catch. The chains swung forward with his movement, catching light as they dangled between us.

"I don't want penetration," he said. "Not right now."

"Show me what you want," I said.

He lowered himself over me. The heat made my breath catch. "You don't get to die on me," he growled, accent thick. "You don't get to walk into my life, make me care, and then check out. Not now. Not ever. Compris?"

He ground against me hard, taking what he wanted. His fingernails bit into my shoulders as he established a brutal rhythm.

"You had no right to do what you did," I snarled, but my hands betrayed me, gripping his hips tighter, pulling him down harder.

"And you had no right to leave me," he shot back. Even half-lidded in pleasure, he held my gaze, fury mixing with desire. "You promised to stay."