Page 50 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

Wright's blood still clung under my fingernails.

Hunter hadn't spoken since we'd left The Factory, but the silence thrummed with unfinished business.

The promises whispered in that concrete hellscape had sustained us through interrogation and execution.

Now, with Wright silenced and his blood under my skin, we had to figure out how to live with what we'd done.

He sat rigid in the passenger seat, but it wasn't fear or trauma keeping him frozen.

It was hunger. The same desperate need that had made him promise to worship every inch of my skin, to make me forget everything but his name.

I could feel it radiating from him despite the distance he was trying to maintain.

Wright had gotten to him. Not enough to break him, but enough to make him question whether the man he'd fallen in love with was someone who could kill without hesitation.

Whether loving a predator made him complicit in the violence, or whether it simply made him smart enough to choose the right monster.

"Misha." My name on his lips was rough with smoke and want.

"I know," I said, already scanning the roadside for somewhere private. Somewhere I could prove to him that the man who'd destroyed Wright was the same one who'd chosen to heal instead of hunt. The same one who'd kill again and again to keep Hunter safe.

We needed each other with the desperate intensity of people who'd just survived something that should have destroyed them.

I pulled into the parking lot of a motel, neon bleeding red across wet asphalt. Hunter turned to look at me properly for the first time since we'd gotten in the van, confusion replacing the hollow look in his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not sharing you with the family tonight," I said, killing the engine. "You need space to process this, and I need you to myself."

His expression softened. "Good," he said finally. "I don't want to be around people either."

The room was generic motel standard: two double beds, a wheezing heater, television bolted to the dresser. Hunter sank onto the edge of the nearest bed with his head in his hands, looking smaller, vulnerable in a way that made me want to crawl into his lap until he remembered he was safe.

I dropped to my knees in front of him, hands settling on his thighs. "Look at me."

Hunter's head came up slowly, eyes red-rimmed and haunted. "I wanted it," he said, barely a whisper. "When Wright offered the drugs. For a second, I wanted it so badly my hands shook."

"But you didn't take it."

"What if next time I do?"

"Then I'll remind you why you chose me the first time," I said, meaning every word. "I'll hold you through it again, count your heartbeats again, prove that you're stronger than the craving. As many times as it takes."

That's what Wright had missed in his clinical evaluation. Recovery wasn't about willpower or strength. It was about having something worth staying conscious for. Someone worth choosing over the high.

"The way you looked at me when I said no," Hunter continued, eyes fixed on mine. "Like you were proud of me. Like I'd done something brave instead of just... not being a junkie."

"You did do something brave," I said firmly.

Some of the tension left his shoulders. "I love you," he whispered.

His eyes dropped to where my hands rested on his thighs, and I saw the exact moment he noticed the dark crescents under my nails. His expression shifted, something protective and tender replacing the vulnerability.

Hunter stood, pulling me up with him, and led me to the bathroom. "Your hands first," he said, voice stronger now. "I need to clean Wright's blood off your hands."

Heat spiked through my veins instead of revulsion. Not guilt. Satisfaction. Proof of what I'd done when someone threatened what was mine.

Hunter guided my hands under warm water, his fingers interlacing with mine. Soap lathered between our palms as he worked, thumb scraping beneath each nail. Pink water spiraled down the drain.

"I could've killed him," he said, his reflection's gaze sliding away from mine in the mirror. "You didn't have to do it for me."

"Yes, I did. You're a healer. That's who you are."

"And what does that make you?"

"A predator," I said. The word tasted right. "Roche didn't break me, Hunter. They just woke me up."

Hunter's grip tightened on my hands. "I still want it," he whispered. "The fent. I probably always will. But I want you more. You're my drug now."

"Good," I said. "That's exactly what I want to be. Your only addiction."

Hunter dried each of my fingers carefully. "I keep thinking about my parents. How disappointed they'd be. I'm in love with someone who kills for me, and I'm not sorry about it."

"You shouldn't be sorry." My hands found his face. "Maybe it's time to reconnect with them."

"I miss them," he admitted. "I miss talking to my mom in Mandarin, miss my dad's terrible jokes in Korean."

"Languages come back when you need them to," I said. "Especially when they're tied to love."

The silence that followed felt lighter somehow. Hunter's fingers curled into my shirt, gripping my waist. "I want to try," he said finally.

"But right now," I pressed a kiss to his forehead, "I want to get out of these clothes. They smell like smoke and death."

The shower was cramped but scalding, steam filling the space. Hunter's hands worked through my hair while I traced the dragon tattoo coiling around his neck.

"Tell me what you're thinking," I said, watching his face.

"I'm thinking about the way you moved when you killed Wright," he said, voice rough with something darker than want. "Cold. Efficient. Like you'd done it a hundred times before."

Heat spiked through my veins at the admission. "And that turns you on."

"Yes." No hesitation, no shame. "It turns me on knowing you'd do it again. Knowing you enjoyed it."

I pressed him against the tile wall, water streaming between us. "I've been thinking about painting my nails again," I said, capturing his wrist and bringing his hand to my lips. "I stopped after the trial, thought it made me look like a victim."

"And now?"

"Now I think it made me look dangerous." I bit down on the pulse point of his wrist, hard enough to leave marks. "I liked the way Wright's blood looked under my nails tonight. The color suited me."

Hunter's breathing hitched, pupils dilating even in the steam. "What color are you thinking?"

"Something dark. Something that won't show blood." I moved to his neck, teeth scraping against wet skin. "You like knowing I killed for you."

"I love it," he gasped, hands fisting in my hair. "I love knowing you're mine. That you'd destroy anyone who tried to take me away."

"Including yourself," I said against his throat. "If you ever chose the needle over me again, I'd hunt you down and drag you back. Kicking and screaming if necessary."

"Promise?" The word came out broken, desperate.

"Promise." My hand found his cock, already hard and aching. "You're mine, Hunter. Mine to protect. Mine to heal. Mine to fuck until you remember why staying conscious is worth it."

The water began to run cold, but heat radiated from our bodies as we pressed together. Hunter's lips moved to my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. My body was already responding, heat building between my legs as I ground against his thigh.

"Bed," I managed. "Now."

We stumbled out, grabbing towels but not bothering to dry off properly. Water dripped from our hair as we moved back into the main room, Hunter's hand finding mine. The cool air hit our overheated skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.

I turned to face him, taking in the sight of him, skin flushed bronze from the heat, droplets rolling down the defined muscles of his chest. My hands came up to his shoulders, fingers tracing the dragon tattoo that coiled around his neck.

Hunter's eyes darkened as he pulled me closer, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that tasted of steam and want. I pushed him backward slowly, our lips never breaking apart, until his knees hit the edge of the bed.

He fell onto the mattress, pulling me down with him, and I settled over his hips, looking down at the man who'd chosen me over drugs.

Hunter's hands came up to my chest, fingers exploring the cherry blossoms on my left side, then the anatomical clockwork on my right. His touch lingered on each design as if he were memorizing a map only he would ever read.

"You have no idea what you do to me," I said, voice going low. "How watching you choose me over Wright's drugs made me feel. How much it made me want you, knowing you picked me over the needle."

"Show me." His hands found my thighs, fingers digging into muscle.

I leaned down, capturing his mouth before trailing my lips down his neck. I bit down on his pulse point, hard enough to leave evidence. Hunter's cry was pure music, spine bowing as pleasure-pain shot through him.

I worked my way down his body, leaving marks across his collarbone. Each bite drew gasps from his lips, his hands tangling in my damp hair. When I reached the dragon tattoo, I traced it with my tongue, following every curve and scale.

I settled between his spread legs, looking up at him through my lashes. "Tell me about your parents," I said, fingers tracing patterns on his inner thighs. "What was it like growing up in their house?"

Hunter's confusion was visible, arousal warring with vulnerability. "What does that have to do with—"

"Everything." My touch moved higher, not quite where he needed it. "Tell me about the parts of yourself you lost. The languages. The traditions. I want to know who you were before the drugs stole it."

The request was more intimate than touching him. I was asking him to let me into the spaces addiction had destroyed, the connections drugs had severed. His family. His heritage. His identity.