Page 49 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

A sob tore from my throat. Tyler had been trying to come back to me while this monster kept him captive with promises of more money for his surgery fund.

"This is bigger than we thought," Eli said from where he'd been monitoring the recording equipment. "We can't be everywhere."

He was right. If what Wright was saying was true, hundreds of people like Tyler were being processed through Wright's network while we sat here interrogating one man.

"Then we'll have to find others who can be," Misha said quietly. His eyes lingered on the blinking red light of the recorder. “But I don’t think there’s much more Doctor Wright can help us with.”

Shepherd nodded grimly.

I stood, my hands still shaking slightly from the adrenaline. The body in the chair needed to disappear. Completely. No dental records. No fingerprints. No way for anyone to identify what remained.

"I'll handle it," I said, reaching for the dental forceps War had set on the nearby table. "I know anatomy. I can make this clean."

My fingers closed around the cold metal. It’d been four years since I'd held medical instruments, but they felt familiar. Wrong, but familiar.

Misha's hand closed over my wrist, gentle but firm, and the world narrowed to that point of contact. His thumb found my pulse, stroking across the racing beat the way he had during withdrawal, during panic attacks, during every moment when I'd needed grounding.

"You've done enough," he said quietly, eyes meeting mine. "Let me do this for you."

"I can handle it." But my voice carried less conviction than I'd intended. He was right. Wright had already made me feel like I had to become a monster to stop one.

"Hunter." The way he said my name was prayer and promise and possession all at once. "You're a healer. That's who you are. It’s who you’ve always been."

Something cracked open in my chest.

"Let me be what I am too," he continued, taking the forceps from my grip. "Let me be the one who kills for you. Let me keep your hands clean so they can still heal people."

I stared at him, this beautiful, deadly man who'd chosen me over vengeance in that basement, who'd saved three lives instead of pursuing his own satisfaction. Now he was offering to damn himself to preserve who I was.

I caught his wrist, stopping him. "You don't have to carry this either. Your hands don't need to be—"

"My hands have been stained since I was twelve," Misha said quietly.

"My father's world. Russian connections.

I helped Xander kill Roche, Hunter. This darkness isn't new to me.

" His eyes held mine, steady despite the shadow that passed behind them.

"But it is for you. You're still a healer. Let me keep you that way."

My throat closed. This wasn't just love anymore. This was something deeper, more sacred. Misha wasn't just willing to kill for me; he was willing to bear the weight of it so I didn't have to. To carry the sin so I could stay clean.

I'd never had anyone love me enough to damn themselves for my salvation.

I looked across the room where War tended to the three survivors. The woman was awake now, confused but breathing steadily. One of the men was sitting up, asking questions in a voice hoarse from intubation. People who needed healing, not hurting.

People I could still help save.

"Go," Misha said, reading my thoughts. "They need you."

I pressed a kiss to his forehead, quick and grateful, then turned toward the medical station. Behind me, the soft clink of metal. Misha beginning his work.

For just a moment, I stopped. Closed my eyes. Breathed.

Tyler was dead. Wright was dead. And I was still here, still whole, still able to choose who I wanted to be.

I pulled the privacy curtain across the room, creating a barrier between the patients and what was happening behind me. They didn't need to see this.

A scream tore through the air behind the curtain—Wright's voice, high and desperate. Then a wet gurgle. Then silence.

I didn't look back.

"How are you feeling?" I asked the conscious patient, fingers finding his pulse. Steady. Strong. Alive.

"Confused," he admitted, squinting at me in the harsh light. "Where am I? What happened?"

"You're safe," I said, adjusting his IV flow. The words felt true in a way they hadn't in years. "You were in a medical trial that went wrong, but you're safe now."

Behind me, I heard the soft scrape of chair legs against concrete. The quiet efficiency of tools being arranged. Misha worked with the same precise care I was using to monitor heart rates and oxygen levels.

War handed me a syringe of saline solution. "The woman needs fluids. Her kidney function is compromised but stable."

I moved to her bedside, explaining each procedure as I administered the IV push. Her eyes tracked my movements, confusion giving way to something like trust. When was the last time someone in a medical setting had treated her like a person instead of a problem?

The sound of running water echoed from across the room. Misha cleaning up. I focused on adjusting medication dosages, checking breathing sounds through my stethoscope, using skills I'd thought were lost forever.

"Am I going to be okay?" the woman whispered.

"Yes," I said, meaning it completely. "Your kidneys took some damage, but they're recovering. You'll need follow-up care, but you're going to be fine."

Her hand found mine, and she squeezed. "Thank you."

The simple words hit deeper than they should have. When had I last heard them in a medical context? When had I last deserved them?

A soft thud from behind me. Something heavy being moved. I kept my attention on the patients, on the living people who needed my help. On choosing who I wanted to be.

War appeared at my elbow with discharge instructions already typed up. "We'll get them to a hospital once we're done here. Different hospitals. Different stories. But they'll get the care they need."

I nodded, checking the third patient's pupils for signs of neurological damage. Normal response. He'd make a full recovery with proper treatment.

The running water stopped. Footsteps. The soft sound of plastic being sealed.

"Hunter." Misha's voice, closer now.

I turned to find him standing behind me, no blood on his clothes, hands clean. The chair where Wright had died was empty. Whatever remained of the doctor had been packaged for disposal.

"It's done," Misha said simply.

I reached for him, pulling him close enough to rest my forehead against his. He smelled like antiseptic and something chemical I didn't want to identify. But underneath was still him. Still the man who'd saved me from my own darkness by taking it into himself.

"Thank you," I whispered.

His arms tightened around me. "Always."

The recording device continued blinking red, Wright's confession preserved for posterity. Proof of systematic murder. Evidence that would bring down an entire network of corruption.

But more importantly, three people breathed steadily behind us. Three lives saved. Three futures given back because Misha had chosen protection over personal vengeance.

Wright was gone. Not just dead, but erased. Anonymous meat that could never be traced back to Dr. Elliot Wright. He'd become what he'd made his victims: nothing. No identity. No dignity. No memory.

The perfect symmetry of justice.

"We're done here," Shepherd announced, already coordinating cleanup with War and Eli.

"Come on," Misha said, taking my hand.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

"My van," he said, pulling me toward the exit.

I still didn’t know where we were going, but it didn’t matter. Not as long as Misha was with me.