Page 33 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

It’d been two days since the van. We'd transformed the recovery room into our war room, every surface covered in printouts.

We hadn't discussed what happened. Just threw ourselves into the investigation.

I stretched deliberately, arching my back and raising my arms overhead until my shirt rode up, exposing a strip of skin above my jeans.

I held the stretch longer than necessary, aware of Hunter's eyes tracking me.

The weight of his gaze sent a pleasant warmth across my skin. Being watched was its own kind of drug.

"Find anything interesting?" I asked, voice innocent while my posture was anything but.

Hunter grunted, eyes back on the file. "Nothing new. Still looking for patterns in these codes."

He sat on the floor surrounded by files.

I crossed the room and dropped to my knees beside him, closer than necessary. "Let me see."

The position put me at his level, my shoulder brushing his. I could smell his soap—cheap, generic, nothing like the expensive cologne I used to wear in Paris. But it was uniquely Hunter. Real. Present.

I leaned over to point at a notation, my hand settling on his thigh. Not aggressive. Tentative, even. Can I touch you? Will you let me after what I did?

He went still, then pressed my hand harder against his leg, his thumb stroking over my knuckles. "You're trying to distract me."

"Is it working?"

"Yeah." He didn't let go of my hand. Held it against his thigh like an anchor. "But we still have work to do."

I pulled back slightly, but he didn't release my hand.

"Later," he said, the promise clear. "After we nail this bastard. I want you properly. Without files and dead bodies between us."

"Later," I agreed.

But the word carried weight now. Later meant a future. Meant both of us would be there, alive and free, to fulfill that promise. Wright couldn't take this from us.

We turned back to the files, hands still touching. Work first. Us after.

But the connection remained, a live wire between our palms.

I traced the billing codes that marked Tyler for death.

"You've been staring at that same page for twenty minutes."

Hunter's voice pulled me back. I looked up to find him watching me, irritation mingled with something softer in his expression.

"I keep thinking about Tyler," I admitted, letting the teasing slip away for a moment. "How he must have trusted Wright. How that trust killed him."

Hunter nodded, eyes darkening. "Trust is a weapon in the wrong hands."

The moment hung between us, weighted with everything we weren't saying. I'd violated his trust to save him. He'd chosen to forgive me anyway. We were rebuilding it one touch at a time.

I leaned over the table, studying the documents from a new angle.

"These codes appear regularly," I noted, circling a pattern with my finger. "Always before dosage increases."

Hunter moved behind me, his chest brushing my back as he reached around to see what I'd found. He didn't retreat this time, his body bracketing mine as we both stared at the paper.

"You're right." His voice rumbled close to my ear. "And look at how they increase after adverse reactions."

I arched my back, pressing against him more fully. "Your powers of observation are impressive today."

His hand settled on my hip, not pushing me away but holding me in place. Then, his own hand covered mine on the table, pressing my palm harder against the page.

"I can appreciate the view while still focusing on the case," he said, voice rough. "Multitasking. I learned from the best."

I turned my head just enough so that our lips nearly touched. "You smell good."

Hunter's jaw clenched, but his hand moved to my knee, squeezing with purpose. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you."

"Misha," he said, voice dropping to something raw.

"I know," I interrupted, not ready to hear whatever he was about to say. "Too much. I'm—"

"Not too much." His hand tightened on my knee, almost painful. "Never too much."

Yuri brought lunch. "Any progress?" he asked.

"Actually, yes," I said, not bothering to create distance between Hunter and myself. My hand settled on Hunter's thigh. "We've identified Wright's system. He was using something called OLEP to mark patients who showed adverse reactions."

"Instead of removing them from the trials," Hunter added, his voice steadier than I expected given our compromising position, "he increased their dosages and kept them in the study. All without proper informed consent."

Yuri's expression hardened, the lines around his mouth deepening. "This proves intent, not just negligence."

"Exactly." Hunter's arm tightened around my waist. "He wasn't just being careless. He deliberately escalated treatments after warning signs appeared."

I started to perch on the table, but Hunter caught my wrist and pulled me back. I settled beside him, pleased. His thumb traced lazy circles on my knee.

"Keep going," he murmured, voice pitched for my ears only. "I want to see how far you'll take this."

River joined us, carrying more files. His dark eyes scanned our progress before he set the stack on the table. "I pulled death certificates for everyone flagged with the OLEP code. Twenty-three deaths in eighteen months, all ruled 'natural' or 'accidental.'"

The room went silent.

Hunter's hand stilled. The playful heat between us evaporated, replaced by something colder. Sharper.

"Twenty-three people," I whispered, staring at the files.

Hunter’s jaw clenched.

My hand covered his. "Hey. Stay with me."

He focused on my face. "I'm here," he said.

"Good." My thumb stroked across his knuckles. "Because I need you."

The words were a lifeline. He grabbed on and held tight.

"This is bigger than we thought," Hunter said. "This isn't one researcher getting sloppy. This is systematic murder."

I nodded, unable to speak past the rage building in my chest.

Something clicked. "This is a pattern for Wright," I said, my voice steadier now.

"When I researched him that first day at the cafe, I found a university financial disclosure showing Wright received over two million in funding from Empirical Pharmaceuticals three years ago.

" I met Hunter's eyes. "Empirical settled a lawsuit last year after three deaths in a similar trial.

The details were sealed by court order."

Hunter leaned forward. "You never told me this."

"It gets worse. Empirical operated through a shell company called NeuraTech Innovations, which shared an address with Wright's private practice. He's been hiding these connections deliberately."

The doorbell rang.

We both looked up, tension shifting from grief to alertness. Hunter's hand found mine under the table—not sexual now, but solidarity. Whatever was coming, we'd face it together.

Annie's voice from reception, cold and professional. A man's voice responding, commanding and unfamiliar.

Hunter's fingers tightened on mine. "Something's wrong."

Yuri's head turned toward the sound, his posture straightening.

"Stay here," he instructed, moving toward the door with surprising speed for his age.

Like hell we would.

We crept down the hallway, stopping at the corner where we could observe without being seen. The lobby of the Laskin Funeral Home gleamed with polished wood and tasteful mourning decor. Through the glass doors, I spotted an expensive black SUV parked out front, its engine still running.

Wright stood in the lobby, flanked by four armed guards. "I have a legal claim to the remains through research protocols."

Yuri accepted the papers, examining each page. His reading glasses appeared from his breast pocket as he studied the forms line by line.

"These appear to be research consent forms," Yuri noted, turning a page. "Not standard mortuary release documents."

"The subject signed ownership of biological materials over to our research program," Wright stated flatly. "That includes postmortem remains. It's all clearly outlined in section twelve, paragraph four."

I bit my cheek until I tasted blood. The subject. The patient. Never Tyler. Never a person. Just a vessel for data, a container for proprietary information.

I couldn't stay silent any longer. "You can't own a person," I called out from our hiding spot, stepping into view. "No consent form in the world can make a human being property."

Wright's head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing.

Hunter moved to stand beside me, his presence solid and grounding. Our shoulders pressed together—not quite touching anywhere else, but that point of contact said everything. United front. Partners. Whatever Wright threw at us, we'd face together.

But I could sense Hunter's surprise too. Wright wasn't here as the untouchable puppet master we'd encountered before. This was a man whose careful web of influence had been compromised, forced into direct action. Dangerous, yes—but also desperate.

"Tyler was a person," Hunter said, voice tight with controlled rage. "Not a lab specimen."

"Nurse Song. I'm surprised you're still vertical." Wright's gaze shifted between us. "And the French model. How charming. This is a private matter between me and the funeral home."

"They're welcome to participate," Yuri interjected smoothly, looking up from the documents. "This is highly unusual. I've never seen research consent forms that included posthumous body rights."

"The patient participated in experimental pharmaceutical trials requiring comprehensive biological monitoring," Wright continued, his attention returning to Yuri.

"The consent documentation is thorough and legally binding. As you well know. And as of this afternoon, we have a writ filed with the court—”

"That has yet to be approved," Yuri countered, handing the papers back.

"You and I both know it’s only a matter of time." Wright's voice carried a hint of impatience now. "That Russian can’t own every judge in the county, and even if he does, I’m prepared to take this to a higher court. All the way to the Supreme Court if need be."

“When you have the proper paperwork—”