Page 37 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

The house smelled like home: herbs, bread, coffee. My stomach knotted with memories of my mother's kitchen.

My body still ached from earlier, every mark Misha left burning like the best kind of high.

Noise hit us on the stairs, and my pulse spiked. Too many voices.

"I should go," I muttered, stopping dead.

Misha turned, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

I jerked my chin toward the chaos below. "This is your family."

"And?"

"And I don't fucking belong here."

Misha studied me for a moment, his eyes softening. "Maybe not yet." He reached out, fingers curling around my wrist. "But you'll never know if you don't try."

The simple touch anchored me. His thumb brushed over my pulse point, counting my heartbeats like they mattered. Like I mattered.

"Fine," I said. "But if anyone mentions my addiction or tries to talk about my feelings, I'm out."

"Deal." Misha's smile lit something in my chest I didn't want to examine too closely. He squeezed my wrist once before releasing it. "Let's go meet the family."

Family. The word tasted foreign on my tongue. I hadn't spoken to my parents in years. The Laskins, though. They were something else entirely. A collection of killers and vigilantes who somehow functioned as a unit. Who loved each other fiercely despite, or maybe because of, their broken edges.

The living room looked like a war council. Maps, photos, timelines of deaths.

And people. So many fucking people.

"There they are!" a mountain of a man boomed, crossing the room in three steps. Before I could back away, he'd wrapped Misha in a bear hug that lifted him off his feet. "You had everyone worried, little bit."

"Put me down, Paxton," Misha grumbled, but his smile said something else entirely.

Paxton set him down, then turned those laser-focused eyes on me. I tensed, waiting for judgment. For commentary about my track marks or gaunt face or the way my hands still trembled slightly. Instead, he stuck out a hand the size of a dinner plate.

"Welcome to the madhouse," he said, grip firm enough to hurt. "I'm Paxton, War's husband."

"Hunter," I replied unnecessarily, startled by the simple greeting.

Paxton nodded toward the slender man still obsessively arranging papers. "You remember my better half, Warrick."

War's sharp eyes scanned me. "Tremor's almost gone. Heart rate slightly elevated, but normal for stress."

"War," Paxton warned, "we talked about this. Not everyone appreciates being medically assessed as a greeting."

War's eyebrows pinched together. "This is follow-up care."

"You were being yourself," Paxton said, pulling War against his side like a favorite toy. "Which I love, but maybe start with 'hello' next time."

"Hello, Hunter," War said, looking confused about why that mattered. "Your liver enzymes should be approaching normal levels by now, but I'd avoid alcohol for at least thirty days."

I laughed. No pity, just clinical honesty. "One addiction at a time is plenty."

Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could be part of something that didn't require hiding who I was.

Misha's hand brushed against mine, a silent question. I nodded once, letting him know I was handling this shit. The touch was brief but solid. Real.

The dining room table was set for twenty. Annie adjusted place settings while monitoring everyone. Yuri followed behind her, pouring wine into glasses, his composed presence commanding the room even in this domestic setting.

"Annie's been cooking all day," Misha murmured, noticing my stare. "Family dinners are a thing here."

"I'll say." The table could seat a small platoon. "How many people are coming?"

"Everyone." Misha's expression darkened slightly. "We've got thirty-four hours before Wright makes his calls. The whole family needs to hear the plan."

My stomach clenched. Right. The deadline. In all the domesticity, I'd almost forgotten we were here to plan a murder, not just eat meatloaf.

“Hi.” I turned to see a tall, skinny, platinum-haired young man in an oversized sweater. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Eli." His voice was deeper than I expected from someone with his delicate features. "Shepherd's partner."

“He’s basically Shephard’s bitch,” Misha said, bumping shoulders with Eli.

Eli gave him a shove back, but smiled. “Say that to his face.”

Misha snorted. “I’d rather not become an appetizer.”

Eli chuckled and nodded toward the back door. "Smoke break's starting if you want to join. Xander's already out there."

Something twisted in my gut at the name. Our last encounter hadn't exactly been friendly. I glanced toward Misha, who nodded.

"Lead the way," I told Eli, steeling myself for what might be an uncomfortable conversation.

The transition from the warm, crowded house to the crisp night air was jarring.

The back porch stretched into darkness, weathered boards creaking under my boots.

Portable heaters glowed orange against the night, their warmth barely denting the January cold.

Xion and Boone stood at the railing, sharing a cigarette and talking quietly.

Further along the porch, partially hidden in shadow, stood Xander.

Eli touched my arm lightly. "I'll be inside if you need anything," he said, with a pointed look toward Xander. Then he disappeared, leaving me to face Misha's best friend alone.

I approached Xander, giving him space rather than crowding. He watched my approach, taking a long drag from what smelled like premium weed. The smoke curled from his lips as he studied me.

"Clean looks good on you," he said, surprising me with the absence of open hostility. "How many days now?"

"Nine," I replied, caught off guard by the question. "Give or take a few hours."

Xander nodded, offering the joint. "Peace offering? It's just weed, not a gateway."

I hesitated only a second before accepting. The weed was top-shelf, smoother than anything I'd had in years. The familiar burn in my lungs centered me, quieting the constant screaming anxiety that had followed me into this house of killers.

"Misha doesn't let many people in," Xander said after a moment. "Not since Paris."

I passed the joint back, making sure to maintain eye contact. "I know."

"Do you know what it took for him to trust after Roche? What it means that he fought his family for you?"

Each question hit like a precision strike, finding vulnerabilities I thought I'd hidden. When Xander mentioned Roche, my gaze flicked to Misha. "You're right. I don't know everything he went through. But I do know what it's like to have people give up on you."

Xander's expression flickered with surprise. He hadn't expected restraint.

"You didn't see it. Not all of it," I continued, my voice growing rougher despite my efforts. The calm slipped as memories surfaced.

"I know enough." Xander's voice softened unexpectedly. "I know he cried over you. I know he chose you over his family, and I've been trying to figure out why."

The raw pain in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't just jealousy or posturing. This was genuine fucking grief from someone afraid of losing his best friend.

The door opened before I could respond. Misha stepped out, eyes immediately finding mine, then Xander's. His expression changed, worry crossing his face as he took in our tense postures.

"Everything okay out here?" he asked, moving to stand between us.

"Just getting to know Hunter better," Xander replied, his smile small but genuine. "Trying to understand why you've been hiding him from us."

Misha relaxed slightly. "I haven't been hiding him. He's been recovering."

"And now he's here," Xander said. "You brought him to family dinner."

"I did." Misha's voice softened. "Because he matters to me."

Xander looked away, fingers fidgeting with the joint. "That's the part I'm still working on understanding."

"What's so hard to understand?" Misha asked quietly.

"Why him?" Xander's voice cracked slightly, revealing the hurt beneath his question. "Out of everyone... after everything we've been through together, you left without a word. For him."

I shifted uncomfortably, recognizing the wounded look of someone watching their world change without their consent. His anger wasn't really about me. It was about feeling left behind.

Misha's expression softened. "Xan..."

"Don't 'Xan' me," Xander snapped, but the heat was fading. Just exhaustion in its place. "You left me."

"I didn't leave you," Misha said quietly. "I left being treated like broken glass. I never left you."

Xander looked away, eyes suspiciously wet. "Feels the same."

Something twisted in my chest watching them. I shouldn't be witnessing this. It was a private pain I had no right to intrude on. I started to back away, but Misha's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist.

"Stay," he said, not looking at me. "This involves you too."

I froze, caught between wanting to escape and needing to understand whatever was happening between them. The tension on the porch had shifted from hostile to raw, exposed.

Misha stepped closer to Xander, still gripping my wrist. "You're my brother. That hasn't changed."

"You chose him over me."

"It was about making my own decisions."

I tensed, waiting for Misha to defend me. Instead, he moved closer to Xander, letting go of my wrist to take his friend's face between his palms. The gesture was shockingly intimate, not romantic, but deeply familiar.

"You're the one who taught me to trust my gut," Misha said, voice so soft I had to strain to hear. "To fight for what I believe in. To choose my own path."

Xander's lower lip trembled. "Not like this."

"Exactly like this." Misha pressed their foreheads together. "You showed me how to be brave after Roche. How to reclaim my life. Now I'm doing it, and you're scared because you don't like my choices."

"I'm scared for you," Xander admitted, voice cracking. "Because I know what happens when someone pulls you in too deep."

I flinched, knowing he meant me. Knowing he wasn't entirely wrong.

Misha pulled back, holding Xander's gaze. "Hunter isn't Roche."

"How do you know?" Xander's voice dropped to a whisper. "How can you be sure he won't hurt you too?"

I wanted to defend myself, to argue that I'd never hurt Misha like Roche had. But the words died in my throat. I'd already hurt him by relapsing. Already broken something by rejecting his care after he'd saved my life.

"I can't be sure," Misha said finally. "But that's my choice to make. My risk to take."

Xander's face showed resignation, maybe, or acceptance. "You really care about him."

It wasn't a question, but Misha answered anyway. "Yes."

Xander's eyes locked onto mine over Misha's shoulder. The hostility had faded, replaced by something more complex. "And you?" he asked. "Do you care about him?"

The question caught me off guard. Did I care about Misha? The man who'd dragged me back from death against my wishes? Who'd held me through withdrawal, cleaned my vomit, counted my breaths? Who'd trusted me with his body and his trauma and his fury?

"Fuck yes," I said, the rawness of my voice surprising even me. "More than I ever thought I could care about anyone again."

Xander studied me for a long moment, searching for something in my face. Whatever he found made him nod once, decision made.

"If you break his heart, I'll carve you into pieces so small they'd fit in a matchbox. I've had practice making people disappear."

The threat should have sounded like B-movie dialogue. It didn't. There was no heat in his voice, no anger, just the calm certainty of someone stating an inevitable fact.

"Understood," I replied, equally calm. I respected his directness, his willingness to threaten me to Misha's face. It showed a loyalty I'd rarely seen.

Misha glanced between us, mouth quirking in something close to amusement. "Are we done with the dick-measuring now?"

Xander rolled his eyes, but the tension had broken. "For now."

Misha stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Xander in a tight embrace. For a moment, Xander stayed stiff, but then he melted into it, his own arms coming up to return the hug with equal intensity. They clung to each other like survivors of the same shipwreck, foreheads pressed together.

"You're stuck with me," Misha murmured. "Always have been."

Xander's laugh was watery but genuine. "God help me."

He took a final drag from the joint, then passed it to Misha. "But if you ever disappear like that again without telling me where you are, I will hunt you down myself."

"Fair enough," Misha agreed, accepting the joint. He took a deep drag, then held it out to me. An offering. A peace pipe. A symbol of something I couldn't name.

I accepted it, our fingers brushing. The touch zapped through me, brief, charged, impossible to forget. From Xander's knowing smirk, the moment wasn't lost on him either.

The door opened again, bringing a blast of warmth and the smell of food. Eli poked his head out, surveying the three of us. Relief crossed his face when he found no bloodshed.

"Annie says dinner's ready," he announced. "And she'll, quote, 'drag your frozen asses inside by your ears if you let her meatloaf get cold.'"

Xander laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine after the tension of moments before. "Wouldn't want to cross Annie when food is involved." He started toward the door, then paused, looking back at me. "You coming?"

The invitation wasn't just about dinner. It was about acceptance. Grudging maybe, and certainly conditional, but real nonetheless.

"Yeah," I said, stubbing out the joint. "I'm coming."