Page 46 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

He loves me. The words echoed in my skull, bouncing off bone until they became a mantra, a prayer, a resurrection.

After everything he'd seen: the broken parts, the rage, the darkness, the way I'd violated his autonomy and dragged him back from death against his will.

He'd looked into the abyss of my damage and said yes.

Not just to me, but to us. To a future I'd never dared imagine.

My chest cracked open, ribs spreading like wings, making room for something I'd thought Roche had killed forever.

Hunter chose me over the chemical relief his body still craved, and in doing so, he'd chosen to believe I was worth staying alive for.

War lifted the first patient easily, carrying her toward the stairs. Xander took the second, supporting the semi-conscious man. Shepherd hauled Wright to his feet, zip ties biting into the doctor's wrists as he forced him toward the exit.

Hunter and I lifted the third patient between us, his body frighteningly light. Another crash sounded from upstairs, followed by the acrid smell of smoke curling beneath the door. My heart rate kicked up, sweat breaking out across my back.

"Move!" Shepherd barked from the stairwell.

We struggled toward the stairs, our patient's head lolling against my shoulder. "Almost there," I whispered, words falling into the space between us as a promise.

Halfway up the stairs, the lights died. Darkness crashed over us.

Hunter's harsh breathing beside me became the only real thing in a world gone to shadow.

We emerged into a hallway already filling with smoke, the air hot and thick enough to chew.

Orange light flickered through doorways, painting Hunter's face in hellish shadows that only emphasized the sharp planes of his jaw, the determined set of his mouth.

The fire caught faster than seemed possible, consuming drywall and furniture with indiscriminate hunger.

Hunter coughed, the sound rattling deep in his chest, each breath clearly a battle. His eyes watered from the smoke, tears cutting clean tracks through the soot already staining his skin.

"Which way?" he gasped, adjusting the patient's weight against his side.

Shepherd appeared at the end of the hallway, silhouetted against what had to be the front door. Freedom beckoned beyond him, cold night air visible in the way smoke swirled into the darkness. "Here!"

We stumbled toward him, the patient growing heavier with each step. The smoke thickened, burning my eyes, scoring my lungs with each breath. Heat pressed against us from all sides. Hunter's steps faltered beside me, exhaustion visible in the trembling of his limbs.

"Keep going," I urged, shifting more of the patient's weight onto myself.

Wood cracked overhead. Hunter shoved me forward as the ceiling collapsed. Flaming debris crashed down, acrid chemical smoke billowing around us. Hunter staggered, pressing one hand to his mouth. He'd caught the worst when the debris fell.

"Hunter!" His name tore from my throat as the smoke thickened, making us both cough violently.

"Go!" he shouted. "We need to move!"

I shoved the patient toward Shepherd. "Take him!"

Shepherd caught the unconscious man easily, disappearing through the smoke toward safety, leaving Hunter and me to create our own escape or die trying together.

With the patient safe, I tore at my shirt, ripping the fabric into strips. "Here," I gasped, wrapping one piece around Hunter's nose and mouth, then doing the same for myself. The makeshift masks weren't perfect, but they filtered out some of the worst fumes.

The chemical smoke continued to thicken around us. Even with the masks, we had seconds before the fumes overwhelmed us completely.

I turned back to Hunter, dropping to my knees beside him.

He was still coughing through the makeshift mask.

"You don't get to die here," I growled. "I didn't save your life to let you die in some basement fire.

Get. Up." I wrapped my arm around his waist, hauling him to his feet with more force than gentleness.

"You're living through this if I have to carry your ass out myself. "

Together, Hunter and I limped toward the exit, finding a rhythm despite the makeshift masks making every breath a conscious effort.

The toxic smoke seeped through the fabric, burning our throats and making our eyes stream.

The heat built behind us insistently, pressing against our backs.

The fire roared, consuming everything in its path.

Wood cracked. Glass shattered. The whole structure groaned under the assault.

We stumbled through the door into the night.

Fresh air hit my face, January cold slicing through the toxic fumes still clinging to us, painful and cleansing and perfect.

We made it twenty feet before my legs gave out beneath me, bringing Hunter down with me in an ungraceful tangle of limbs.

We collapsed onto frozen grass, tearing off the makeshift masks and gulping clean air that tasted better than any wine, any drug, any pleasure I'd ever known.

Behind us, Wright's house was fully engulfed, orange flames shooting through the roof, black smoke billowing into the night sky. The evidence was burning, just as planned. But we had Wright himself. We had saved three victims. We had the beginning of justice.

More importantly, we had survived. Both of us. Together.

Hunter's hand found mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining despite both of us trembling from the chemical exposure.

The contact sent electricity arcing through me, every nerve ending suddenly, painfully alive.

His eyes reflected the dancing flames, but he wasn't looking at the fire.

They were looking at me with an intensity that sent heat straight to my groin despite everything we'd just survived. That look burned with hunger.

Even covered in soot and reeking of chemical smoke, even trembling from exposure and fear, he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

I pressed my forehead against his, breaths mingling in the cold air. "Je t'aime," I whispered against his lips, my accent thickening with emotion until the words came out soft and musical, the way French was meant to sound. "Je t'aime. You’re everything to me."

His eyes widened, pupils expanding in the firelight, breath catching in his throat. The vulnerability there undid me completely. I knew what my native language did to him, how it made his breath catch and his hands grip tighter.

I kissed him then, desperate and tender all at once, tasting smoke and sweat and him, both of us still carrying the acrid remnants of our escape.

His mouth opened under mine like he'd been starving for this, tongue sliding against mine with hunger that matched my own.

His stubble scraped deliciously against my skin as I angled his head exactly where I wanted it.

The familiar texture, the taste of him underneath smoke and fear crashed over me like a drug hit, better than any chemical high because it was him, choosing me, wanting me back.

I bit his lower lip gently, then soothed the sting with my tongue, swallowing the soft moan that escaped his throat.

"You’re killing me," he gasped against my mouth.

"Good," I growled, trailing my lips along his jaw. "I want you dead from wanting me."

"When we get home," Hunter said, voice rough with smoke and promise, his eyes dark with want, "I'm going to show you exactly what you are to me. I'm going to take you apart until you forget everything but my name."

My cock throbbed at the threat, at the heat in his voice. I wanted that. Needed it. Needed him to prove we were both real, both alive.

"How long do we have to wait?" I asked, already aching for him.

"Too long," he said, pressing closer until I could feel the hard line of his erection against my hip. "But it'll be worth it."

Around us, the Laskins moved quickly, loading patients and Wright into vehicles. Shepherd appeared above us, his expression grim.

"Move it," he barked. "Fire department's five minutes out, maybe less. We need to be gone before they arrive."

I struggled to my feet, pulling Hunter up with me. His arm went around my waist for support. Despite the smoke, the fire, the chaos, his solid warmth pressed against me. Alive. Still mine.

"Can you walk?" I asked.

"With you? Yeah." His voice was hoarse from the chemical smoke, but his eyes were clear. Determined.

War jogged over, medical bag in hand. "Both of you, in the SUV. Now. I need to check you for smoke inhalation once we're clear."

As we stumbled toward the vehicle, sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Hunter's hand found mine, fingers interlacing as we climbed into the backseat.

Wright lay unconscious across from us, zip-tied and sedated. His face was calm in the dim light, but when he woke up, his last hours would be anything but peaceful.