Page 47 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

The Factory squatted in the darkness like something carved from nightmares.

Shepherd's property stretched across twenty acres of Ohio nowhere, the main building a converted meat packing plant that had probably processed thousands of cattle before the industry moved south.

The loading docks and rail spurs remained, along with the industrial drainage and refrigeration systems.

Now it served a different purpose, but the function remained eerily similar.

My boots crunched across gravel as we dragged Wright from the SUV. The building's bones were all wrong angles and utilitarian brutality, designed for efficiency over aesthetics.

The sedative War had pumped into Wright was wearing off, his head lolling from side to side, eyes struggling to focus. Good. He needed to be awake for what came next.

The exterior lights cut harsh shadows across Wright's face, highlighting every line, every pore, every fucking atom of the man who'd killed Tyler like he was nothing.

"Move," I growled, shoving Wright toward the entrance.

Misha appeared at my elbow, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine, and the world suddenly made sense again. The contact steadied something inside me that had been vibrating at the wrong frequency since we'd pulled Wright from that burning house.

"You ready for this?" he asked.

I turned to look at him properly for the first time since the rescue, drinking in the sight of him alive and whole and here.

Smoke still clung to his hair, soot streaked his cheek, but those brown eyes held the same fierce intelligence that had first captivated me in Tyler's examination room.

Beautiful and dangerous, and absolutely mine.

"Been ready since I saw Tyler's body on that table," I said, then leaned closer, voice dropping to something only he could hear. "But first, I need you to know something."

His eyes darkened with interest. "Tell me."

"When we get home tonight," I breathed against his ear, close enough that he'd feel my breath on his skin, "I'm going to show you exactly how much missing you destroyed me. I'm going to worship every inch of skin that almost burned, kiss every place I thought I'd never touch again."

Misha's breath caught, pupils dilating despite our surroundings. Heat flared between us, the same electricity that had sparked in Wright's clinic when we'd kissed with security chasing us.

The entrance opened onto a reception area that looked normal enough. Shepherd's coat hanging on a hook. Coffee cups on a side table. A stack of Popular Mechanics magazines. Nothing to suggest what waited deeper in the building.

"This way," Shepherd said, leading us past the civilian facade.

Through a reinforced door, the Factory revealed its true nature. Industrial lighting. Concrete floors stained dark in places no amount of bleach would touch. The air carried the metallic taste of old fear mixed with industrial disinfectant.

War had already set up a medical station in one corner, monitors beeping as he tended to the three patients we'd pulled from Wright's basement. The woman's breathing had stabilized. One of the men was conscious now, confused but alive. The third still lay unconscious, but his color was better.

"They'll live," War reported without looking up from his work. "Whatever Wright was testing, we caught it early enough."

Wright's legs gave out as the sedative fully cleared his system. I caught him by the collar, hauling him upright. His eyes swept the room, evaluating the setup like he was touring a rival's laboratory.

"Interesting facility," he said, voice steady despite the zip ties cutting into his wrists. "Though I question the sterility protocols."

The fucker was actually critiquing our torture setup.

"Sterility won't be your biggest concern," Shepherd replied, gesturing toward a chair bolted to the concrete floor. "Sit."

Even zip-tied and kidnapped, he carried himself like he was attending a medical conference instead of facing execution.

I shoved him hard into the chair . His spine hit the metal with a crack that echoed off concrete walls.

Wright's eyes tracked Misha's movement, pupils dilating slightly. Fear maybe, or sexual interest. With men like Wright, the two emotions often occupied the same space.

"You're the mortician," Wright observed. "I remember you from the funeral home. Quite striking, if a bit... dramatic in your presentation."

My hands clenched into fists. The casual way he reduced Misha to an aesthetic evaluation was the same tone he'd used when calling Tyler "raw material." Like people existed for his consumption.

"Let's establish some ground rules," Shepherd said, pulling up a second chair. He sat backwards on it, arms crossed over the back, close enough to Wright that their knees almost touched.

From his jacket, he produced a digital recorder, setting it on the floor between them. The red light began blinking immediately.

"Everything you say from this point forward is being recorded," Shepherd said. "You're going to tell us everything about your pharmaceutical trials. Every detail. Every person involved. I want names and details."

"I'm bound by patient confidentiality laws," Wright replied smoothly. "And research protocols have strict disclosure guidelines."

The laugh that escaped my throat sounded like breaking glass. "Patient confidentiality? You murdered twenty-seven people."

"Research subjects," Wright corrected, unfazed by his situation. "Who provided valuable data through their participation. The fact that some didn't survive the full trial protocol doesn't negate the scientific value of their contribution."

Shepherd nodded once to War, who stepped forward with a leather case. He unrolled it on the side table, revealing an array of surgical instruments. Wright glanced at them with professional interest rather than fear.

"Standard surgical kit. Adequate quality, though I prefer German instruments myself. The steel holds an edge longer." He smiled thinly. "If this is intended to frighten me, you should know I've performed over two thousand surgeries. The human body holds few mysteries for me."

War selected a small pair of bone cutters. The metallic snick echoed in the concrete room.

"Last chance to start talking voluntarily," Shepherd said quietly.

Wright looked bored. "I've overseen research where subjects endured pain far beyond anything you could legally inflict. Pain is simply nerve signals interpreted by the brain. Nothing more."

Something twisted in my gut. The casual way he spoke about suffering. The clinical distance between his words and the reality of what he'd done to Tyler. To hundreds like him.

War moved with military efficiency, grabbing Wright's left hand and extending his pinky finger. Wright's clinical facade cracked instantly.

"Wait, wait, wait!" he gasped, trying desperately to pull his hand away. "You can't—this is—I'm a surgeon! My hands are my livelihood!" His voice rose in pitch, panic overtaking any remaining composure. "Please, for God's sake, not my fingers!"

The bone cutters closed around his knuckle. Wright's eyes widened.

"Stop!" he screamed. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you anything! WAIT—"

The crack of bone followed by Wright's howl filled the room. Blood spattered across the concrete floor. The severed tip of his finger rolled away, leaving a crimson trail.

Wright's scream dissolved into a series of ragged, hyperventilating gasps. His face drained of all color as he stared at his mutilated hand in shock. For several seconds, he couldn't even form words, just made small, animal sounds of distress.

"Jesus Christ," he panted finally, voice thin and reedy with shock. "You cut off my... you actually..." His words dissolved into a low moan as the full pain registered. "Oh God, oh God..."

He retched suddenly, vomit spattering the front of his pristine lab coat. The stench filled the room, acrid and sour. Wright's head drooped, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"You can't," he whispered, looking up at us with disbelief. "This isn't... people don't... this isn't happening."

"We're not interrogators," Misha said, picking up the severed fingertip and examining it. "We're family."

Wright's breathing came in shallow, rapid gulps. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. "Please... I need a doctor. I'm going into shock. I need... I need..."

“I am a doctor,” War said coldly. “And we’ve even brought a nurse.” He gestured to me.

I swallowed, fighting the urge to vomit. "Tyler Graham," I demanded. "Tell me about Tyler Graham."

Sweat poured down Wright's face. His eyes kept returning to War's hands, tracking every movement near the surgical tools.

"I don't—" he started, then flinched when Misha shifted. "Subject identifiers are alphanumeric. I don't recall... I can't possibly remember every—"

Misha selected a curved scalpel, testing its edge with his thumb. Wright's words died in his throat.

"4-5-8-G-21," he blurted, voice higher than before, losing the measured cadence of his doctor persona. "Cardiovascular response patterns within... within expected parameters." His gaze remained fixed on the scalpel in Misha's hand. "Please don't cut my face. I have a conference next month."

The incongruous concern for his appearance made my stomach turn. Even now, he was thinking about his career, his standing, his future presentations.

"His name was Tyler. Not a fucking subject number."

Wright's eyes darted between us, calculating odds, measuring our resolve. "Tyler," he conceded quickly. "Yes. The transgender subject. He was very cooperative initially. Almost eager."

Misha traced the tip of the scalpel down Wright's cheek, not cutting yet, just letting him feel the cold metal. Wright's entire body went rigid, his remaining fingers clutching the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Wait," he whispered, a note of genuine panic in his voice. "Not my face. Please. The protocols. I'll tell you about the protocols."