Page 34 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

“Now you listen here, Laskin…”

"Mr. Wright, if you're going to threaten me, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Yuri said, his accent thickening.

"It's Dr. Wright," he corrected, voice cool. "And I am simply stating the facts. Facts that might become relevant should this unnecessary obstruction continue."

Annie appeared from the back office, her expression sharpening as she assessed the situation. She moved to Yuri's side, whispering something in his ear before slipping her phone from her pocket and stepping away.

Wright's fingers drummed against his thigh. "I don't have time for bureaucratic delays. The subject's remains contain time-sensitive biological data critical to our research."

"His name was Tyler Graham," I said, advancing toward Wright. "And he deserves dignity in death."

The security personnel shifted, hands moving slightly toward concealed weapons. Wright held up a hand, stopping them with a subtle gesture. "Your presence is unnecessary.”

"I disagree," River said flatly. "I'm the mortician."

Wright sighed theatrically. "The patient's remains contain proprietary information related to our pharmaceutical trials. Proprietary information protected by significant non-disclosure agreements and intellectual property law."

"Proprietary information?" My voice rose despite my efforts to control it. "You're talking about a human being."

"I'm talking about a research participant who willingly signed comprehensive consent forms." Wright tapped the documents in Yuri's hands. "Forms that explicitly grant ownership of biological specimens to our research program."

Then Hunter stepped forward, putting himself between me and Wright. His body language shifted—nurse to soldier. The man who'd survived COVID wards and killed in fight rings.

"Let me make something clear," Hunter said, voice deadly quiet. "Tyler was my friend. He came to me for medical advice. I told him to stop your trials. He ignored me because you convinced him it was safe."

Wright's expression didn't change. "Patient noncompliance—"

"He died thinking he'd failed." Hunter's hands clenched into fists. "Died believing his body was wrong, that the adverse reactions were his fault, that if he'd just tried harder, he'd have survived your fucking experiments."

"I assure you—"

"I watched my patients die on ventilators," Hunter continued, voice rising.

"Held their hands while they drowned in their own lungs.

And I couldn't save them. But you?" He took a step closer.

"You CHOSE to kill Tyler. Chose to increase his dosage when you knew it would destroy him. Not to save lives. To collect data."

"Mr. Song, I understand you're upset, but emotional outbursts—"

"I'm not upset." Hunter's smile was terrible. "I'm making a promise. Tyler died alone in the snow, thinking nobody cared. But we care. And we're going to make sure everyone knows what you did."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a guarantee."

Wright adjusted his glasses. "I understand you're emotionally invested, Mr. Song, but your history of substance abuse hardly qualifies you to evaluate medical research protocols."

Hunter's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. Wright had found the perfect spot to dig his knife, twisting Hunter's shame against him.

Annie returned, standing beside Yuri. "Our lawyer has instructed us not to release the body until he's reviewed the paperwork."

"This is becoming tedious." Wright tucked the papers into his portfolio. "The subject signed everything voluntarily. All procedures followed IRB protocols."

"The subject?" Something snapped inside me as the word left his lips again. Heat rushed up my spine, setting fire to rational thought. "His name was Tyler Graham. He was twenty-six years old. He had dreams. He had a life. And you KILLED him!"

Wright's eyes remained cold and dismissive.

The exact same expression Roche had worn while documenting my captivity.

"I understand you've had some mental health challenges, Mr. Vasiliev.

" Wright's voice. Roche's voice. They merged, separated, merged again.

"Your experiences in Paris were unfortunate—"

Flash of a camera. Roche's voice commanded poses. Not here—Athens, funeral home—but the memories blurred.

Wright's voice droned on, but the words kept sliding off my brain. Paris kept bleeding in at the edges—Roche's voice mixing with Wright's, the funeral home lights too clinical, too bright, too much like the studio.

I lunged toward Wright—toward Roche—toward every man who'd ever treated me like property. Rage blinded me to everything except the need to make him HURT.

Security personnel intercepted me. Hands on my arms. Spinning me around. Slamming me against—

No. Not again. Not like Roche. Not restrained while they—

"Misha!" Hunter's voice cut through the panic. He yanked me free of the security guards and put his hands on my face. "Look at me. Right now."

I focused on his eyes. Brown, familiar, concerned. Not Roche. Not Wright. Hunter.

"Breathe," he commanded, voice steady despite the chaos. "Count backward from ten."

"Ten," I gasped. "Nine. Eight."

The room stopped spinning. Paris stayed in Paris. I was here in Athens, and Hunter was with me.

But the rage remained. Pure and clean and righteous.

"You don't own him!" I shouted, straining against the hands holding me back. "You don't own any of us!"

Hunter grabbed me from behind, pulling me away from the security team. "Misha, stop. He's not worth it."

Wright straightened his tie, unfazed.

"Attempted assault," he noted calmly to his security team. "Add that to the breaking and entering at my clinic, theft of confidential medical records, violation of multiple federal privacy laws." He brushed invisible dust from his sleeve. "Your position becomes more tenuous by the moment, Mr. Vasiliev. If you don’t comply within the next forty-eight hours, I’m afraid you’ll leave me no choice but to contact immigration and demand they revoke your work authorization.”

My blood turned to ice. Deportation. Back to France. Back to Roche's lawyers, Roche's connections, Roche's reach.

Hunter's arms tightened around me, but I could feel him shaking.

"The Laskins can't protect you from federal charges," Wright continued. "Once ICE begins formal proceedings, very little can stop them. Especially with the evidence I've compiled."

Evidence. Documentation. Proof we'd given him by confronting him directly.

"You have forty-eight hours," Wright said, pocketing his phone. "After that, certain wheels will turn that cannot be stopped. I'd suggest using that time to get your affairs in order rather than making empty threats."

Hunter held me steady as my legs threatened to give out, adrenaline draining fast.

"I'll return with the proper documentation," Wright informed Yuri. "I suggest you prepare the remains for transfer."

"The family will handle this legally and appropriately," Yuri replied, his posture rigid. "Good day, Dr. Wright."

The security team formed a barrier around Wright as he exited. Through the glass doors, I watched them escort him to the waiting SUV. Only when the vehicle pulled away did Hunter's arms loosen around me.

"That fucking prick," Hunter snarled, pacing the room like a caged animal. His hands kept clenching and unclenching, seeking violence with nowhere to direct it. "Who does he think he is?"

"Someone untouchable," I answered. "Someone who thinks the rules don't apply to him."

Yuri cleared his throat. "There will be a family meeting this evening at seven. Everyone needs to be there." He glanced between us, his eyes moving from Hunter to me, noting how Hunter held me upright, how I leaned into him without shame, how our hands stayed locked together. "He matters to you?"

"Yes," I answered.

Yuri nodded once. "Then he's family. We protect family."

Hunter's fingers tightened on mine. “Thank you.”

"I'll let the others know," Yuri added, then turned to leave.

As Yuri disappeared down the hallway, Hunter whirled on me, eyes blazing. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

The sudden shift in his anger caught me off guard. "Pardon?"

"He practically threatened to have you deported, and you gave him assault charges on a silver platter." He stepped closer, towering over me. "You think that was smart?"

"Fuck your double standard." "

You have more to lose than I do."

"I don't need you to protect me." I pushed harder against his chest. "I survived Roche without your help."

"And look how well that turned out."

The air between us went electric. I stared up at him, fury burning through every cell. "What did you just say to me?"

Hunter's jaw tightened, but he didn't back down. "I said look how well that turned out. You're still carrying it everywhere you go."

"You know nothing about what I carry."

"I know you're reckless. I know you act without thinking. I know you're going to get yourself thrown out of the country because you can't control your temper."

"At least I'm not hiding in a hospital bed while people die around me."

His face went white. "That's not fair."

"Fair? You want to talk about fair? Wright killed Tyler. He's trying to claim his body like property. And you're lecturing me about being reckless?"

"Someone has to think clearly here!"

"Fuck clearly. Fuck thinking. Fuck you!"

"Fuck you!"

We stood nose to nose, both vibrating with rage.

The rage twisted. Became something else. Something hungrier.

I wanted him. Right now. Needed to reclaim what Wright was trying to take from us.

I grabbed his shirt and yanked him toward the door.

"Misha—" Hunter's voice was rough, confused, but he didn't resist.

"Don't talk. Just come with me."

We nearly collided with River in the corridor. His eyes took in my flushed face, Hunter's confused expression, my white-knuckled grip on Hunter's shirt.

His expression shifted from amusement to understanding. "Go," he said quietly. "I'll handle things here."

He understood. This wasn't about sex. This was about survival. About claiming each other before Wright could tear us apart.

"Just walk faster," I growled, shoving through the exit door into the biting cold.

The winter air bit through my shirt. The cold barely registered. All I could process was the terror that had been building since Wright spoke—that I might lose Hunter. Lose this. Lose everything we'd built from the ashes of our trauma.

I dragged Hunter around the side of the building, away from windows and prying eyes, until we were pressed against the cold brick wall in the narrow alley between the funeral home and the neighboring building.

"Misha, what are you—"

I kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Pouring every ounce of rage and fear and need into the press of my mouth against his. He froze for half a second, then kissed me back with equal ferocity, hands fisting in my hair as he spun us around and slammed me against the wall.

The brick was cold and rough against my back, but Hunter was heat and fury and everything I needed. His teeth caught my lower lip, biting down hard enough to make me gasp. I tasted copper, blood mixing with the kiss, and it only made me want him more.

"You're insane," he growled against my mouth.

"He wants to separate us," I said, the words breaking on a sob I hadn't known was coming.

"He can't." Hunter's hands gentled in my hair even as his body stayed pressed against mine. "I won't let him."

"Promise me." I pulled him closer. "Promise you won't let them take me back."

"I promise." His voice turned lethal. "Even if I have to kill him myself."

The words should have terrified me. Instead, they felt like safety. Like home.

We stood there, foreheads pressed together, hearts racing in sync.

"What if this goes wrong?” I murmured.

"Then at least we go down fighting. Together.”

I pulled him closer, hands framing his face. "Together," I promised.

He kissed me, fierce and desperately.

I’d survived Roche. Hunter had survived withdrawal. Hell, he’d come back from the dead. We could survive this too.

Or die trying.