Page 41 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

"I love you," I said before I could stop myself.

Misha went still beside me, eyes wide, the portfolio sliding from his hands. "What?"

The word came out breathless, like he couldn't quite believe he'd heard correctly. Like maybe he'd been waiting to hear it as much as I'd been waiting to say it.

"I love you," I repeated, more certain this time.

The words were strange on my tongue, foreign after so many years of feeling nothing.

"I'm in love with you. Completely. Dangerously.

I didn't think I was capable of this anymore, but you.

.." I swallowed hard, throat tight. "You make me want to be someone worth loving. "

His breath hitched. "Mon dieu," he whispered. "I love you too. I've been falling for you since that first night, when you broke into our funeral home like some beautiful, dangerous ghost. I didn't know if you'd ever..."

"Ever what?"

"Ever choose me back," he said quietly. "Ever want someone as fucked up as I am."

"We're both fucked up," I said, leaning closer until our foreheads touched. "But maybe that's what makes this work. Maybe we're exactly broken enough for each other."

He leaned in, lips brushing mine in a kiss that tasted like promise and forever. Soft at first, reverent, like he was afraid I might disappear. Then deeper as I responded, pulling him closer.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, Misha rested his forehead against mine. We sat like that for a moment, just breathing the same air, letting the weight of what we'd just said settle between us.

"I never thought I'd say that to anyone again," I said finally. "After everything... I thought that part of me was dead."

"It wasn't dead," Misha said, catching my hand. "Just buried. Waiting for the right person to help you dig it up."

All those years of numbness, of floating through a chemical fog, I'd convinced myself I was protecting what was left of my heart. But really, I'd just been waiting. Waiting for someone who could see past the track marks and the shaking hands to whatever was worth saving underneath.

"The bandage," he said suddenly, voice still thick with emotion. "From earlier. I should tell you what it was."

I pulled back slightly, studying his face. The vulnerability there, the nervous energy in his hands as he touched the edge of the bandage through his shirt.

"You don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to share," I said softly. "I can wait."

"No." His eyes met mine, steady and sure. "I want to tell you. This is important. War gave me a birth control implant. A small rod that goes under the skin and prevents pregnancy. It lasts for years."

"That's a big commitment," I said slowly.

"I know it's presumptuous," he said quickly.

"We haven't talked about the future. But I was thinking about what we're building together.

I wanted to show you I'm serious about us.

" He paused. "I know your recovery is fragile.

That addiction doesn't disappear because we love each other.

But I want you, even if it's messy and complicated. "

I stared at him, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he was offering. Years of commitment. Years of believing in us when I wasn't sure I believed in myself. Years of planning for a future I'd never let myself imagine.

"What if I relapse?" My voice trembled. "What if I fuck this up? What if I'm not worth the risk you're taking?"

"Then we'll deal with it," he said simply. "Together. I'm not some na?ve kid, Hunter. I know what I'm signing up for. I know recovery isn't linear. But I also know you. I know how hard you're fighting. I know how much you've already changed."

He reached for my hands, lacing our fingers together. His grip was firm, possessive. "I'm not going anywhere. You're mine now, and I protect what's mine."

The words sent heat through my veins, something dark and hungry stirring in my chest. This wasn't soft, romantic love. This was something fiercer. More dangerous.

"It's not presumptuous," I added. "It's smart. It's planning ahead for all the ways I'm going to have you."

His smile was sharp, predatory. "Years and years of it."

I pulled him into a hungry, desperate kiss full of everything I couldn't say. He responded immediately, hands tangling in my hair.

"You're mine," he growled against my neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. He added something in French about keeping me, breaking me, putting me back together.

"Yes," I gasped as he bit down hard enough to leave marks. "Fuck yes."

My shirt disappeared, torn from my body with impatient hands. When I reached for his, he caught my wrists, pressing them back against the mattress.

"Did I say you could touch me?" His voice made my cock twitch against my jeans. "You're going to wait until I decide what I want to do with you."

I tried to buck up against him, but he held me down, his weight settling over my hips. "I need you," I said against his mouth, already breathless and aching. "Please."

"I know you do. I can see exactly how hard you are for me already. But you're going to take what I give you, when I give it to you."

He released my wrists only to strip off his own shirt, then pinned them again before I could move. The position left me completely exposed beneath him, at his mercy.

"Such a good boy," he murmured, eyes dark with intent. "Look how still you're being for me. Even when you're this desperate, this hard."

His free hand traced down my chest, nails scraping just hard enough to sting. When he reached my belt, he took his time, drawing out each movement until I was squirming beneath him, my cock straining against denim.

"Misha, please—"

"Shhh." His thumb pressed against my lower lip, silencing me. "You survived withdrawal for me. You can survive this."

The comparison sent a shockwave through me. The way he'd controlled my pain then, measured out relief in careful doses. Now he was doing the same with pleasure, and my body responded with complete surrender.

He stripped me slowly, hands mapping every inch of newly exposed skin. When my jeans finally hit the floor, my cock sprang free, already leaking and desperate for his touch.

He whispered something in French, then said in English, "You don't get to touch yourself. You don't get to come until I say."

His fingernails traced down the length of my cock, barely a whisper of contact but enough to make my hips jerk violently off the bed. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves through me.

"Fuck!" I gasped, my body going rigid as I teetered on the very edge of climax. "Misha, I'm going to—"

His hand instantly pulled away, leaving me gasping and desperate. "No, you're not," he said coolly, watching my cock twitch against my stomach. "Not yet. Not until I decide you've earned it."

When he finally removed his own jeans, I was already shaking with need. The sight of his body, the way his arousal was visible between his thighs, made my mouth go dry.

"Look at me," he commanded, and then said something that must’ve been absolutely filthy in French as he settled over me.

The first touch of heat as he positioned himself made me groan, hips jerking up involuntarily. He was so ready, and when he reached down to guide me, I nearly came from the anticipation alone.

"Don't you dare," he warned. "If you come now, I'll make you wait hours before I touch you again."

The threat was enough to pull me back from the edge. Then he began to sink down, taking me into his body inch by torturous inch. The sensation was overwhelming as tight heat enveloped me.

"Fuck," I groaned, head thrown back. "You're so tight. So perfect."

He said something soft and breathy in French, and I almost lost it.

"Misha, I—" My hands flew to his hips, trying to still his movements. "I'm not going to last."

"I know," he said, voice commanding. “But not yet.”

He began to move. Slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that had me gasping. The drag of his body created complete sensory overload.

"You don't get to come," he murmured, hands on my chest. "Not until I've had my fill of you."

Every time I got close, he'd change rhythm, lifting until only the head of my cock remained inside him, then sink down at a different angle. Exquisite torture, keeping me on the edge.

"Fuck," I groaned, sweat beading on my forehead. "You're killing me."

Time became meaningless. He worked me ruthlessly, bringing me to the brink over and over without mercy, murmuring in French.

My cock was so hard it was painful, pre-cum leaking steadily as he used me for his pleasure.

His own arousal was evident in the flush spreading across his chest, his ragged breathing.

He tisked and then asked me something in French, picking up the pace slightly. "You want to come so badly, don't you?"

"Yes," I sobbed, past caring how desperate I sounded. "Please, Misha, please let me come. I can't take any more."

"Beg me in French," he commanded, that predatory smile playing at his lips. He told me the words to say.

I repeated the French phrase clumsily but with urgency, begging him to let me come.

Instead of answering, he leaned down and kissed me, deep and possessive. When he pulled back, his movements became more deliberate, angling his hips in a way that made me groan.

"Touch my cock," he commanded, guiding my hand between his legs.

My thumb found him, stroking with the same desperate rhythm as my heartbeat. His breathing hitched, and I watched his face transform—the careful control dissolving into pure need. Only for me. His movements became more erratic as his own pleasure built.

"Misha," I gasped, feeling that familiar tightening at the base of my spine. "I'm going to— I can't stop it—"

But he didn't stop. Instead, he rolled his hips harder, his own moans mixing with mine as he chased his pleasure.

"I'm coming," I warned desperately, "I'm coming—"

My orgasm tore through me like recognition—this was home, this was belonging, this was worth staying alive for. Every muscle seized as I pulsed inside him. The intensity was overwhelming, all that desperate edging culminating in a climax that left me shattered.

"That's it," Misha breathed, still moving above me, prolonging every pulse. "Good boy. Give me all of it. Let me feel every drop."

His praise sent another wave through me, my body giving him everything while he rode me through it. The sight of him taking his pleasure from my helpless release was almost enough to make me come again.

"Such a good boy," he continued, his breathing ragged as he worked toward his peak. "Coming so hard, filling me up just like I wanted. Don't stop touching me. I'm so close."

My shaking fingers kept working between his legs, stroking him through his approaching climax. His movements became more desperate, chasing his release.

"Right there," he gasped, head falling back as pleasure overtook him. "Don't stop. Fuck…"

He shattered above me with a broken cry, his body clenching around me as his orgasm crashed through him. The sight of him coming apart, completely lost in pleasure, was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"You stayed," he murmured against my throat when it was over, his voice soft but fierce. "Even when I dragged you back from the edge. Even when I violated your choice."

"You saved me," I whispered, still trembling. "From the needle. From the emptiness. From myself."

"And you chose me back," he said, pressing his lips to my pulse. "Every day since, you've kept choosing me."

I couldn't find words for what that meant to me, so I pulled him down for another kiss instead. Soft this time, grateful rather than desperate. When we finally broke apart, he shifted to lie beside me, head settling on my chest like he belonged there.

We lay tangled together like survivors, like victors, like two people who'd chosen each other over everything else the world offered.

"The capture kit is ready," Misha murmured against my chest. "War's sedatives, zip ties, vehicle prepared. Shepherd confirmed The Factory is ready for an extended interrogation."

I pressed my lips to his hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. Tomorrow we'd be torturers. Tonight, we were just two people in love, holding each other while Tyler's ashes watched over us like a benediction.

"Stay," he murmured. "Sleep here tonight. In my bed."

The request was bigger than it sounded. We'd always fallen asleep in the van after sex, maintaining the pretense that this was temporary. Casual. Sleeping in his bed, in his space, meant something different. Meant belonging.

"Yeah," I said, tightening my arms around him. "I'll stay."

Misha smiled against my skin, pressing a soft kiss to my chest. "Good."

I pulled the covers over us, settling deeper into the mattress. The grief was still there, sharp and unforgiving. The urge to get high still whispered at the edge of my mind. Recovery wasn't a fairy tale with a happy ending. It was a daily choice, and some days would be harder than others.

Still, for the first time in four years, I fell asleep without wanting to be anywhere else. Even if I knew the peace wouldn't last.