Page 43 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

Three unconscious patients needed saving, but the basement door was my only exit. And now killers were about to come through it. I needed a hiding spot. Fast.

I ducked behind a metal cabinet, wedging myself between it and the wall.

My shoulders pressed against concrete while my knees dug into the floor.

I made myself small, like I'd learned in Roche's closet, but the stillness came from older lessons—my father's childhood 'games' of hiding practice.

"Stay quiet, stay small, stay alive," he'd whispered.

My heartbeat hammered loud enough to betray me. Each breath became a conscious effort. I breathed shallow enough to stay silent, deeply enough to prevent passing out. I exhaled through my nose, controlled despite the panic clawing at my chest.

My hands shook as I gripped the knife, but not from fear of the killers above. The tremor came from imagining Hunter finding my body, having to bury another person he loved. The thought of leaving him alone again was worse than dying.

Two men descended the stairs. Both wore tactical gear beneath civilian clothes, weapons holstered but visible. One carried a duffel bag that clinked with metal contents. The scent of gun oil and sweat carried across the room.

"Got fifteen minutes to set this up," the taller one said, unzipping the bag to reveal containers of flammable liquid and electrical wiring. "Fry the circuit breaker by the water heater like last time."

"I swear Martinez gets the easy jobs," the second man grumbled, pulling on gloves. "We're down here with the creepy science project while he gets to watch the perimeter."

The taller one moved toward the back wall, footsteps stopping just feet from my hiding place. I could smell his aftershave, hear the soft rattle of his breathing. If he turned, if he looked, if he moved just slightly to his left—

My hand tightened on my knife, thumb stroking the handle. I'd slit his throat before he could call out if I had to.

The men ignored the patients completely, treating them as objects rather than people. One man checked each gurney, confirmed the victims were unconscious, then continued his work. The callousness of it made the blood pound louder in my ears. They didn't even see these people as human.

"Think they'll bump our pay after this one?" the taller one asked. "This is the third rush job this month."

"You know how it works," his partner replied. "Same rate no matter how messy."

There was a crash from upstairs. Both men froze, hands moving to their weapons. My pulse spiked again, each heartbeat hammering against my ribcage.

The radio on one man's belt crackled. "Martinez, Andrews, status report."

"Still setting up downstairs," the man replied, tension making his voice sharper. "What was that noise?"

"Just knocked something over checking the office. All clear up here. Stick to the schedule."

"Copy that." He turned to his partner, relaxing slightly. "Finish up down here. I'll do a sweep of the utility room."

My muscles cramped from holding still, pain shooting up my legs and back. Sweat trickled down my spine despite the basement chill. I didn't dare shift position, even as my body screamed for movement.

The remaining man continued working, his radio crackling every thirty seconds with clockwork precision. "Basement sector three clear." "Moving to sector four." "East wall complete." A constant stream of updates that never stopped.

My hand tightened around my knife. I could take him.

Should take him. One quick movement, blade across the throat, the weight of his body dragged silently behind the cabinet with me.

The predator in me calculated distance, angle, timing.

The force needed to pierce through clothing to reach vital organs.

My father's voice echoed in my memory: "Always know your exits, always count the opposition, never strike unless you can finish it. "

But the moment he stopped reporting in, they'd know something was wrong.

I shifted my weight, calculating angles, timing, distances. If I struck now, I'd have less than thirty seconds before his team realized something was wrong. Not enough time to help the patients, find an exit, and escape.

Hunter would know what to do here.

Focus, Misha. The patients first. Then escape. Then vengeance.

I forced myself to stay hidden, watching for an opportunity that never came. My fingernails dug into my palms, drawing blood that ran hot between my fingers.

His radio crackled. "Primary team has reached the extraction point. You guys almost done?"

"Just finishing up," he replied, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the basement chill. "Two more minutes."

He made a final connection at the electrical panel before reporting in. "Everything's set. Timer active."

"Good. Wrap it up. Martinez is already in the car."

He took one final look around the basement, eyes sliding over the patients. "What about these three?"

"Not our problem," came the reply. "Fire takes care of everything."

He shrugged, seemingly unbothered, and headed up the stairs. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

I waited thirty seconds before emerging from hiding. My legs threatened to fold beneath me, knees weak from adrenaline and fear. The knife I'd been clutching had carved its shape into my palm, blood slicking the handle like a ritual sacrifice.

Options. I need options.

The timer on the panel ticked down from five minutes. Enough to get them out. Maybe.

I cut the restraints on the first patient and paused. Wright was escaping while I chose three strangers over the confession that would make him scream Tyler's name in recognition.

The knife trembled in my hand. This moment would define me—the broken thing seeking revenge, or the partner Hunter needed. Someone who chose the harder path because it saved lives.

My father taught that survival meant making choices that kept you breathing. Hunter taught that some choices were worth the risk.

Wright made these people into objects, just like Roche made me into poses. But we weren't objects. We were Tyler Graham. Hunter Song. Misha Vasiliev. Real people with names and stories.

Tyler's face flashed behind my eyelids, but not the corpse from my examination table. The living Tyler, who'd smiled in photos with his new ID. The one who would’ve sat up late talking with Hunter by the fire. The Tyler who had lived.

If I let these patients burn for my satisfaction, I'd be betraying everything Tyler had stood for.

Every cut through the restraints was cutting myself free from years of powerlessness. Every patient I freed was proving that trauma could create protectors, not just victims. The first restraint snapped under my blade like absolution.

I slung the first patient over my shoulder. The second was half-conscious, mumbling through blue lips, but able to stumble if supported.

From upstairs came wood splintering, then War's voice, low and vicious. Wright was cornered.

Four minutes. Time to get them out and prove I'd learned the difference between justice and revenge. That loving Hunter had made me someone worth coming home to.

My hands worked restraints while my mind counted heartbeats. Not just the patients'—mine. Still fighting, determined to return to the man who'd taught me survival was an act of love.

I had the last cuff halfway open when the sounds above went quiet. Not the good kind of quiet. The wrong kind.

"Misha!" War's voice again, but farther this time, like he'd moved away from the basement door.

The final cuff gave. I turned toward the stairs, hefting the second patient toward the stairs, hope flaring that War had Wright secured upstairs—

And froze.

Wright stood in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, the other holding a pistol steady at my chest. His shirt was ripped, a dark stain spreading along one sleeve, but his aim didn't shake.

"Step away from them," he said, eyes flat as glass. "Now."

Fuck.