Page 7 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

The community clinic hadn't changed much in four years.

Same beige walls, same industrial carpet that had probably been installed in the eighties, same smell of disinfectant and desperation.

The pharmacy entrance buzzed with activity.

Some people were there to pick up prescriptions.

Others argued with insurance representatives over the phone.

A few more looked like they'd rather be anywhere else.

Just like me.

My hands shook as I pushed through the glass doors, and not entirely from withdrawal. Being back in a medical facility made my skin crawl. Too many memories of who I used to be, what I'd lost, what I'd thrown away for the temporary peace of chemical oblivion.

Misha followed behind me, moving through the space like he owned it. No hesitation, no discomfort.

Watching him move made something tighten in my chest. The way he carried himself was all elegant lines and controlled grace even in a shitty Ohio clinic. Like slumming it with me was just another performance.

Four years ago, I wouldn't have been able to afford the air he breathed. Now here we were, planning crimes together. And I was trying not to think about how good he'd look pressed against the nearest wall.

Focus. We’re here for Tyler. Justice. Not how Misha's jeans fit.

"Records desk is around the corner," I said. "Martinez should be working."

"Show me the break room first," Misha said.

I looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What?"

"My backup plan involves future access." His smile was sharp, dangerous. Made me want to see what other dangerous things that mouth could do. "This might not be our only visit."

"What if you get caught?"

"The key to getting in anywhere you're not supposed to be is confidence." He adjusted his leather jacket. "Look like you're supposed to be there and nobody asks questions. I had plenty of practice on Paris runways. If I can belong there, I can blend into a clinic in Ohio."

The break room was typical medical facility fare.

Mismatched chairs, an ancient coffee maker, bulletin board covered in OSHA notices and birthday party announcements.

Three nurses sat at a small table, eating lunch and complaining about a difficult patient.

Their jackets hung on the back of their chairs.

"Stay here," Misha murmured. "Keep watch."

I scowled at being told what to do, but crossed my arms and did as he asked.

Misha walked straight into the break room and made a beeline for the coffee machine. As he passed the chairs, his hand dipped into a jacket pocket so smoothly I almost missed it.

The movement was pure performance. Controlled, graceful, the kind of thing you perfected under hot lights and camera flashes.

That's when it clicked. The walk, the bone structure, the way he held himself.

Misha wasn't just a mortuary worker. He was one of those models from the magazines Tyler used to flip through, pointing out the beautiful people living in a world we'd never touch. I knew I’d seen him before somewhere!

He poured himself a coffee and then walked out with the same casual energy.

Nobody even looked at him.

"Jesus," I muttered once we were down the hallway.

"Confidence," he said simply, showing me the keycard. "She won't even notice it's missing until her next shift."

Was it pathetic that his thievery made me even harder? Probably.

But watching Misha work—smooth, controlled, completely unrepentant about breaking rules—did something to me. Made me want to pin him against the wall right here in this hallway and find out if he'd look that calm with my hand around his throat.

Made me want to be the thing that finally broke his composure.

"You're staring," Misha said, not looking at me.

"You're a criminal," I replied.

"So are you." He tucked the keycard into his pocket. "Difference is, I'm good at it."

The arrogance was fucking hot.

We needed to get this over with before I did something stupid. Like kiss that smirk off his face.

The records area sat behind bulletproof glass, a necessity in a clinic that served everyone from suburban soccer moms to people like me.

Carlos Martinez looked up when I approached.

His eyes widened slightly, then his eyebrows shot up.

When he took in my hollow cheeks and shaking hands, his mouth turned down at the corners.

"Hunter? Jesus, man. How you were?"

"Surviving," I said, leaning against the counter. My reflection in the glass looked haggard, desperate. Everything I was trying not to be around Misha. "Need to ask you about Dr. Wright. The research trials he runs through here."

Behind me, Misha shifted closer. His chest nearly pressed against my back as he pretended to look at a health poster. The heat from his body made my skin prickle. Made it hard to think.

But there was something calculated in the way he moved. The way he let his shoulder brush mine just a beat too long. Like he knew exactly what effect he was having on me and was using it.

Smart bastard.

Part of me wanted to turn around, crowd him against the wall, make him feel as off balance as I did. The other part—the part that still had some self-preservation—knew that would be a terrible idea in a public clinic.

So I stayed facing forward, let him play his game, and tried to ignore how good he felt pressed against me.

Carlos's expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "What about them?"

"You process the participants, right? Handle their files when they come in for monitoring?"

"Sometimes." Carlos leaned back and crossed his arms. "Why?"

"A friend of mine died," I said, cutting to it. "Tyler Graham. Twenty-six years old, found dead with Wright's experimental drugs in his system."

Carlos's face went pale. "Tyler Graham? Yeah, I remember him. He was in a couple of Wright's trials. Stopped showing up for his last few appointments."

"Have you noticed anything unusual? Higher dropout rates? Emergency room visits?"

Carlos glanced around, making sure we weren't being overheard. "You know I can't give you specifics. But yeah, there've been some concerns. At least six ER visits in the past three months. All Wright's trial participants. Cardiac irregularities, respiratory distress, severe anxiety episodes."

"And Wright knows about these visits?" Misha asked.

Carlos looked at him more carefully, taking in the expensive clothes, the perfect posture, the way Misha held himself like he expected to be obeyed. Like he was used to being the most important person in any room. "You are?"

"A friend." Misha's voice was smooth as silk. "I work in mortuary services. I've been helping Hunter investigate Tyler's death."

"Yeah, Wright knows," Carlos said. "He gets copies of all emergency department reports for his participants. Part of the monitoring protocol."

The bastard knew. Knew people were getting sick, dying, and kept going anyway.

"What about dosage adjustments?" I pressed. Misha's thumb had started tracing small circles against my spine, hidden by the angle of his body. "Any changes to protocols?"

"That's getting into specifics I really can't—" Carlos froze, eyes widening as he stared over my shoulder.

I turned.

Dr. Elliot Wright stood at the reception desk, talking to the front desk staff. He looked exactly like his university photo. Expensive suit, perfectly styled silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses.

My entire body went cold, then blazing hot. Four years of shame and rage crystallized into pure panic. "Fuck." The word barely made it past my lips.

Misha followed my gaze and went still. "That's him?"

I nodded.

Wright was finishing his conversation, already turning toward us.

"We need to go." But my feet wouldn't move.

"No." Misha's voice dropped to something dangerous. "This is perfect."

"Misha—"

"Trust me." His hand slid to my hip, fingers curling around the worn denim. The gesture looked casual, supportive, but the heat in his touch suggested something else entirely. "Just follow my lead."

Wright plastered on a concerned smile as he approached. "Hunter Song," he said, my name dripping with false warmth. "Well, this is unexpected. I've been worried about you."

Worried. Like I was a patient he gave a shit about instead of someone whose life he'd helped destroy.

"Dr. Wright." I barely managed to get the words out.

Wright's attention shifted to Misha. "And you've brought a friend. I don't believe we've met." Wright extended his hand. "Dr. Elliot Wright."

"Michael." Misha took the offered hand with that same sharp smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I work with Hunter."

"Work with Hunter?" Wright's eyebrows rose, voice dripping with sympathy. "I wasn’t aware Mr. Song was employable at the moment. Are you aware of his history?"

Fuck you, I thought and had to bite my tongue to keep from saying it.

"Hunter's helping me investigate a mysterious death," Misha continued. "One of your patients, actually."

Wright’s expression hardened. “May I see your badge, then?”

"Oh, I'm not with the police," Misha said.

"I see. Then on what authority are you here?”

“My own,” Misha replied smoothly.

Wright smiled, the fucking bastard. “Young man, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I don’t know what Mr. Song has told you, but… Are you aware of his history with opiates? They can cause delusions, you see.”

“I’m not fucking delusional,” I growled. “Tyler was here, and you knew he was having problems, yet you doubled the dosages on his experimental drugs, and now he’s dead!”

Wright's face went completely blank for a moment. "That's quite an accusation, Mr. Song." His tone remained infuriatingly calm. "The kind that could be considered slanderous if made publicly. But given your... condition... I'm sure you don't fully understand the implications of what you're saying."

I clenched my fists. “You fucking bastard. You killed him, and you know it.”