Page 55 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

It wasn't hyperbole. Without Hunter, I would have spent my life planning murders, turning my trauma into weapons against the world. Without me, Hunter would have completed what the DNR tattoo promised by disappearing from a life he'd convinced himself held no value.

Instead, we'd built something beautiful together. Not just the center, but ourselves. Our capacity for joy. Our ability to transform pain into purpose instead of letting it destroy us.

"I love you," I said, the words still new enough to taste like miracles.

"I love you too." His kiss tasted like promises kept and a future worth building.

That was the real legacy of Tyler Graham's death: not just a resource center, but the proof that love could resurrect the dead parts of people and teach them to live again.

Across the courtyard, Yuri and Annie stood with Warrick. Yuri handed Warrick a set of keys.

The moment carried more weight than the simple transfer suggested. For decades, those four had been the family's foundation, building an empire of protection and vengeance from nothing, creating a haven for people the world had discarded.

Now they could step back and watch their creation continue. We'd proven that their legacy would outlive them by not just surviving but evolving from a destructive force into something that could build as well as break.

Annie caught my eye across the courtyard and raised her champagne glass in a subtle toast. The woman who'd first offered me sanctuary, who'd held me through panic attacks, who'd taught me that family could be chosen rather than endured.

They'd given me everything. Now I could give something back: proof that their legacy was worth preserving. That what they'd built in darkness could flourish in light.

"They're making it official," Hunter murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "Warrick took over leadership from the four of them. The family business has a new boss."

Warrick accepted the keys with a nod. The family business would continue. But now it had a blueprint for building as well as breaking.

Across the courtyard, Annie and Tatty embraced Warrick while Yuri and Nikita stepped back. The family torch had been passed.

Paxton maintained his position nearby, a mountain disguised as a man, keeping watch over Charlie and Lettie. The girls distributed pamphlets, their enthusiasm unsettling the guests who took them.

The triplets stalked through the crowd in graceful coordination.

Xavier demonstrated security systems to potential donors, the same hands that had broken fingers now pointing out motion sensors.

Leo translated beside him, their bodies synchronized in the way only longtime lovers achieve.

Xion and Boone clustered with their team, the Junkyard Dogs awkwardly packaged in button-downs that strained across combat-trained muscle.

Their eyes constantly swept the perimeter, bodies angled for maximum defensive coverage.

Xander managed reporters with Ash at their side, Xander in a tailored Armani dress while Ash wore a matching suit, their identical smiles perfect and practiced. The best camouflage was always respectability. I adjusted my tie, understanding the sentiment completely.

Shepherd and Eli joined us. Shepherd handed me a champagne flute, the glass catching sunlight.

"To Tyler," he said quietly.

"To Tyler," we echoed.

I noticed the stranger before he approached—tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-weathered skin and steady eyes that missed nothing.

He wore a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms marked by years of outdoor work.

The younger man beside him sported a worn cowboy hat, boots, and a turquoise bolo tie.

When they approached, Hunter shifted closer to me.

"Mr. Vasiliev." The older man's voice was low and unhurried. "Wes Sierra. This is Rafe."

Rafe nodded once.

"What brings you to our opening, Mr. Sierra?" I asked.

"You proved something we needed to see," Sierra said. "That broken people can be rebuilt into something powerful. That trauma can become strength instead of just rage."

He gestured toward the center. "We run a ranch outside Truth or Consequences in New Mexico. Second chances for young men the system's written off. Some need healing, like what you've built here." His voice dropped. "Others need... different kinds of purpose."

"Different how?" Hunter asked.

"Let's just say not everyone's path to redemption looks the same," Rafe said carefully. "Some skills shouldn't be wasted. Some kinds of justice can't happen in courtrooms, a fact you boys know first-hand, or so I’ve heard.”

Sierra handed Hunter a card. "When you're ready to see what else your model can build, give us a call. We could use guidance from people who understand that sometimes the world needs protectors who operate outside the law."

Hunter and I exchanged a look. We both recognized the same dangerous hope we'd once carried.

"Justice and revenge look similar at first," I said finally. "But they end in very different places."

"We know the difference," Rafe said carefully. "And we know the consequences."

Hunter took Sierra's card, studying it before slipping it into his pocket. "We'll need to talk to Warrick first. He's in charge of the family now." His eyes flickered toward where Warrick stood with Annie. "We'll call you once we've discussed it."

Sierra nodded once, the gesture carrying the weight of an oath. "Thank you."

As they disappeared into the crowd, Hunter leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "What do you think?"

Sierra and Rafe moved through the guests, shoulders tense, eyes alert. Their stance spoke of men accustomed to carrying weight without showing strain.

"I think they might actually pull it off," I said. "They have something we didn't."

"What's that?"

"A blueprint." I nodded toward the center, toward the family surrounding us. "We had to build ours from scratch."

Hunter's fingers laced with mine, his grip tight and certain. "Ready to go home?"

Home. A word that had once meant nothing to me had become everything.

We walked away from the center together, leaving behind the crowds and congratulations. In the parking lot, Hunter stopped beside my van, turning me to face him. The setting sun caught in his eyes, turning them to amber.

"That day in January, when I first met you at the funeral home, did you ever think we'd end up here?"

I thought of that morning, smiled, and shook my head. “Not at all.”

"I was at rock bottom when we met," Hunter admitted quietly. "I figured helping you was the one useful thing I could do."

"All I had was rage and pain," I replied. "I couldn't imagine existing without that fury to fuel me."

His thumb traced the wedding ring on my finger, a simple band that represented the most radical thing either of us had ever done. Choosing to build instead of destroy. Choosing to heal instead of hurt. Choosing each other over the darkness that had shaped us.

"Do you remember the night you overdosed?" I asked quietly.

"I remember waking up disappointed that I'd survived it."

"And now?"

"Now I'm glad you didn’t listen to me. Honestly, I’m just glad to be alive." He kissed my forehead. "I used to think survival was a punishment. Now I know I was being kept alive to find you."

I thought of Roche's studio, of the drugs that had made everything float away while he violated my trust and body. How I'd convinced myself that numbness was safety, that feeling nothing was better than feeling everything.

"I learned something too," I admitted. "That feeling everything, including the painful parts, was better than feeling nothing at all."

"Look what we built instead," Hunter whispered, gesturing toward the center, toward our family, toward the life we'd constructed from broken pieces.

We'd been wrong about everything. We weren't broken beyond repair. We weren't too damaged to deserve love. We weren't doomed to destroy everything we touched.

We'd just been waiting for each other.

"Tyler would be proud," I said, the words carrying more weight than any speech I'd given today.

"Tyler made this possible," Hunter corrected. "His death brought us together. His life gave us the blueprint for what we wanted to build."

Hunter’s kiss tasted of promise. Of peace hard-won and never taken for granted.

As we drove home, I glanced in the rearview mirror. The Tyler Graham Center stood silhouetted against the evening sky, lights glowing from every window.

It wasn’t an ending, but a beginning. Not just for Sierra and his boys in New Mexico, but for anyone who needed to find their way back from darkness.

"You're smiling," Hunter said, his hand resting on my thigh.

"I'm happy," I replied, the words still new and strange on my tongue.

Tyler Graham would never know what his death had set in motion. How his tragedy had forged something lasting. But we would carry that knowledge forward, his name now synonymous not just with loss, but with redemption.

For him. For us. For all the others who would follow.