Page 53 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

"Nowhere," I said coldly. "The kind of nowhere that can't be found even if you cut up the earth with bulldozers."

Nash's eyes darted between us, reassessing the situation entirely. "What do you want? Money? A position in the company?"

Misha laughed. "We want the trials to stop. All of them. Every location. Immediately."

"That's not possible." Nash leaned back, composure returning as she found familiar ground. "The board would never authorize—"

"We're not asking the board," Misha interrupted. "We're telling you. The trials end today."

"Or what?" Nash asked. "You'll go to the authorities? With what? An illegally obtained recording that would be inadmissible in any court? Do you have any idea who my husband is?"

"Senator Robert Nash," I said. "Health, Education, Labor and Pensions Committee. We know your puppet strings reach to Washington."

My hands stayed rock steady as I leaned forward. No tremors. No shakes. My control was returning when I needed it most.

"Tyler Graham was twenty-six years old." I leaned in. "Wright doubled his medication after he showed cardiac irregularities. Then documented his death as 'valuable data on terminal responses.' The FDA has specific protocols for adverse reactions. Protocols you systematically violated."

My gaze caught on a glass trophy behind her desk. "Innovation in Neurological Pharmaceuticals: NeuroPath Research." The same drug that had stopped Tyler's heart. They'd given her a fucking award for the poison that killed my friend.

"Young man," Nash sighed. "The pharmaceutical industry saves millions of lives. Progress requires sacrifice."

"Not Tyler's life," I said. "Not anymore."

Nash's eyes narrowed. "What exactly do you think is happening here? You walk into my office, make threats, and I suddenly shut down a billion-dollar operation? That's not how the world works."

"You misunderstand," Misha said. "We're not here to negotiate. We're informing you of a decision already made."

"By whom?" Nash scoffed.

"By us," Misha replied. “And you’ll comply one way or another.”

Nash blinked rapidly. "You're bluffing."

"Victoria," Misha said, leaning forward until they were eye to eye across the desk, "do I look like a man who bluffs?"

Nash's gaze shifted to me, searching for weakness. She found none. The restlessness that had plagued me in the lobby had vanished, replaced by cold focus.

"You'll shut down the trials," I said. "Every site. Every operation. No record. No paper trail. Just a quiet, complete termination of all field research."

"And if I refuse?" Nash asked.

Misha smiled. "Then you’ll find out what happened to Dr. Wright."

Nash swallowed hard. "You can't just walk in here and threaten me. I have security—"

Her hand moved suddenly toward something under her desk. Panic surged through me. A silent alarm. A gun. Four years on the streets taught me to recognize when someone was about to pull a weapon.

Before I could move, Misha was already in motion. His hand shot out, fingers closing around Nash's wrist. He applied pressure to a nerve point that made her gasp.

"That would be unwise," he said softly. "Now show me what you were reaching for."

Nash's face contorted with pain as Misha forced her hand back to the desk surface. A small silver button gleamed where her fingers had been heading. One push and security would flood the office.

"So predictable," Misha said, releasing her wrist but keeping his hand close enough to grab her again. "Now, let's try this conversation again. Without interruptions."

Nash stared at us, weighing options that had narrowed to a single point. "You expect me to believe you'll just walk away? That you don't want money or power or a seat at the table?"

"We want justice," I said simply. "For Tyler. For the other twenty-six people your trials killed. For the hundreds more who would have died if we hadn't stopped you."

Nash tilted her head. Her brow furrowed. "You really don't understand, do you? This isn't about profit. It's about progress. These trials will lead to treatments that save millions. What's the cost of a few marginal lives compared to that?"

"Be realistic," Nash said, leaning forward. "These people contribute nothing to society. Homeless addicts. Vagrants. Mental cases. Their lives were already over. At least through our research, they served a purpose."

I clenched my jaw. Nash spoke the same words Wright had used, the same justification for murder. Corporate office or clinic basement, the monsters wore different clothes but shared the same rotten core.

She studied my face, her eyes narrowing as she shifted strategies.

"I see it now. You're an addict." Her voice changed, calculating and cold.

"The track marks aren't fully healed, are they?

Your hands still shake sometimes when you need a fix.

That's why you care about this Graham person. Fellow junkie? Friend from rehab?"

She leaned forward again. "Tell me, what makes you think anyone will believe the word of an addict over the CEO of a publicly traded company?

Do you know how easy it would be to dismiss everything you've said as drug-induced paranoia?

How quickly your credibility evaporates the moment your history comes to light? "

I clenched my jaw as she continued, voice softening with false sympathy.

"You think you understand what happened to your friend. But addiction clouds judgment. Creates connections that aren't there. Makes you see conspiracies when it's just tragic coincidence. How many times have your drug-addled perceptions been wrong before?"

Every word was designed to undermine, to make me question myself. Six months ago, it might have worked. Might have sent me spiraling back to Jimmy McCoy with two hundred dollars and a death wish.

But she'd miscalculated. I wasn't the same man anymore, and my connection to Tyler had nothing to do with shared addiction.

I was here because he was my friend, because we'd survived the streets together, because when they found his body, it was Misha who had prepared it in the morgue and noticed the signs that didn't add up.

"You're right about what I was," I said, meeting her gaze without flinching. "But you're wrong about what that means now. Tyler was my friend. We supported each other through the worst times. When he died, it wasn't an accident or an overdose. It was murder. Your murder through Wright."

"Your mistake," I said, my voice steadier than I'd expected, "is thinking my history makes me less dangerous to you.

It makes me more dangerous. I know exactly what you did to Tyler because he told me what was happening in those trials before he died.

And Misha saw the evidence on his body in the morgue. "

Nash's expression flickered with something approaching uncertainty.

"We're not here because we were victims of your trials," I continued. "We're here because you took my friend, and Misha's professional expertise confirmed what happened. And now we're going to make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else."

Rage burned through me. This was the high I'd been chasing, purer than any drug.

"Your word," Misha said flatly. "Now."

Nash stared back. Her professional composure abandoned her. She recognized, perhaps for the first time, that we weren't men who cared about legal remedies or corporate politics. We'd come for blood.

"Fine," she said finally. "The trials end. Today. You have my word."

"Good," Misha said, rising from his chair. He pocketed the recorder and buttoned his jacket in one smooth motion. "We'll be watching. Remember that."

I stood, straightening my tie as I followed Misha toward the door. One glance between us. Victory licked at our heels, but hunger burned hotter. His promise was violence. Mine was survival. And we'd earned both.

Nash remained seated, her empire crumbling around her in invisible ruins.

"You won't get away with this," she called after us, voice cracking. "You have no idea the forces you're up against."

Misha paused, hand on the doorknob. "After everything we’ve been through to get this far, what makes you think we fear anything you could do to us?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered and unanswerable. Nash stared back, the truth sinking in. We weren't men who played by the rules. We weren't men who feared consequences.

We were men who had already decided her fate, and now simply waited to see if she would accept it.

We left Nash's office without another word. The silence followed us into the hallway, broken only by the quiet hum of the elevator arriving.

We stepped in, and the elevator doors closed behind us with a soft ping. The moment we were alone, Misha slammed me against the wall, his mouth on mine. His teeth scraped my bottom lip, breaking skin. The copper tang of blood mixed with his taste.

The adrenaline of threatening Nash, of seeing her crumble, transformed into a different kind of power between us. The violence we'd promised her became something else entirely. Something only we could share.

"Fuck," I groaned as his teeth scraped my neck. "The way you grabbed her wrist. How you knew exactly where to press to make her hurt."

"I know where to press to make you hurt too," Misha purred, squeezing my cock through my pants. His fingers traced the outline, pressing just hard enough to make me gasp. "You get off on watching me destroy people."

"I get off on you," I corrected, rutting against his hand. "On this version of you that nobody else gets to see."

His mouth found my ear, teeth closing around the lobe. Pain and pleasure blurred together until I couldn't distinguish between them. The same high. The same rush. My new addiction wearing Misha's face.

"The version that killed for you?" he whispered.

"Yes," I hissed, need pulsing through my veins. "The version that'll do it again if she breaks her word."

Misha laughed against my throat. "Just wait until we get back to the hotel. I'll pin you down and ride you until you forget every language except my name."

The elevator pinged, warning us we were approaching the lobby.

We broke apart, hands smoothing rumpled clothes, straightening ties, adjusting cuffs.

The transformation was immediate and complete.

By the time the doors opened, the monsters wore suits again.

No blood, no bruises, just polished smiles and eyes too dark to be anything but feral.

In the lobby, a security guard watched us pass, his gaze lingering a beat too long. My fingers traced the outline of the recorder in my pocket. No weapons needed. The evidence we carried was deadlier than any knife.

We walked through the revolving doors into Boston's winter chill, victory and vengeance warming our veins more effectively than any drug.

A man in a gray coat stood by the fountain across the street, a newspaper folded under his arm, eyes tracking our movement. Not security. Something else. Someone else. When our eyes met briefly, he touched his earpiece and turned away.

"Will she keep her word?" I asked as we headed toward the car.

"She will," Misha said with absolute certainty, glancing back at the building's glass facade. "But we'll verify anyway."

The sleek black town car Nikita had arranged waited at the curb, the driver standing by the open door. As we slid into the backseat, Misha's phone buzzed with an incoming text.

"Shepherd," he said, reading the message. "First site in Kentucky has already started clearing out. Looks like Nash took us seriously."

"Good." My hand found his, fingers interlacing. "Tyler would be proud."

Misha squeezed my hand. "I remember processing his body. 'He/Him' with that date underneath. The first thing I noticed when Tyler came to the morgue." His voice roughened. "We made them see him. Made them respect who he really was."

The car sped through Boston streets, away from Meridian's glass tower. Behind us, Nash was undoubtedly making calls, trying to contain the damage. But the trials would end. The killing would stop.

My phone buzzed. Jimmy's name appeared. Got fresh product. Medical grade. The good shit. You know where to find me. I stared at the message, then blocked his number and deleted the contact. One more tie to my old life severed.

The cravings would return. Some days would be harder than others. Recovery wasn't a destination but a journey I'd walk every day for the rest of my life.

I touched the spot on my arm where track marks were slowly fading. For the first time since I'd plunged that first needle into my vein, I wanted something else more than I wanted to forget. Hell, I wanted a lot of things now, things I never would have dreamed of wanting before.

And the most important was sitting right next to me.

I took Misha's hand in mine. "What now?"

Misha leaned closer. "Now we live, lao gong."