Page 8 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

Wright turned to Misha. "I can't discuss my patients with outsiders due to HIPAA regulations. But I strongly urge you not to feed Mr. Song’s delusions, young man. I can recommend some excellent psychiatrists who specialize in addiction-related psychosis."

The gaslighting was masterful. Making me sound crazy, unstable, unreliable. All while sounding concerned and professional.

"We know Tyler was one of your patients," Misha said, voice sharp. “I have his prescription bottles to prove it.”

Wright’s smile faltered for just a second. “And you are?"

“Michael Laskin.”

“Ah.” Wright’s lip curled. “The apprentice mortician. And that accent… You’re the one from Paris.

The damaged little bird who escaped Roche’s cage.

I remember seeing your face on the news.

Terrible what happened in Paris… But perhaps spending time with someone who shares similar.

.. vulnerabilities... isn't the healthiest choice for either of you.”

Misha flinched. He actually fucking flinched.

Something dark and violent stirred in my chest.

"Back off," I growled. "You don't get to talk to him like that."

Wright's eyebrows rose. "How touching. The disgraced nurse defending the traumatized model."

My hands clenched into fists. Four years since I'd thrown a punch sober, but I was willing to break that streak. One hit. Just one, right to that smug fucking face.

Misha's hand found mine and squeezed.

I squeezed back, thumb brushing across his knuckles.

"I would hate for someone to spread damaging rumors about my research," Wright continued, his voice still soft.

But something had shifted in his expression.

The polished facade cracked slightly, revealing something harder underneath.

"Especially someone with Mr. Song's credibility issues.

And I'd hate even more for a young man like yourself to get caught up in.

.. well. Let's just say that making unfounded accusations against university faculty tends to have consequences. For everyone involved."

He looked at both of us, letting that sink in.

"Now, I have patients waiting. Real patients with real problems who need real medical care.

Not conspiracy theories and accusations.

" He pulled out his phone, making a show of it.

"I think I should probably document this interaction.

For safety purposes. Two individuals, one with a known history of theft and substance abuse, making threatening statements.

I'm sure Security will want a full report. "

He started typing, speaking as he did. "And I'll need to notify the university police. Maybe even file a formal complaint. Which I’m sure would reflect rather poorly on the Laskin family funeral home, no?"

Wright looked up from his phone, smile cold. "Unless, of course, you'd like to leave now. Voluntarily. Before this becomes... official."

"We're leaving," I said. "But we'll be back. Count on it."

Outside, the winter air hit like a slap. As we approached the parking lot, a black sedan with tinted windows and government plates pulled in. It parked near the entrance but didn't kill the engine.

"We need to go," I said. "Now."

"Is that—"

"Someone Wright called. Probably." I grabbed Misha's arm, pulling him toward the street. "Move."

We walked quickly but didn't run. Running would draw attention. Behind us, I heard a car door open.

"Hunter." Misha's voice was tight. "Someone's following us."

I risked a glance back. A man in a dark suit had gotten out of the sedan. He wasn't rushing, just keeping pace about fifty yards back. Watching.

"Keep walking," I said. "Don't look back again."

We turned a corner, then another. The man stayed with us, never closer, never farther. Not aggressive. Just there. A reminder that Wright knew where we were, what we were doing.

Finally, we reached Misha's van. I climbed in, and only then did the man stop. He stood on the corner, hands in his pockets, and pulled out a phone, aiming it at us like he was recording.

Then he turned and walked away.

Misha started the engine but didn't pull out. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white.

"You should have told me," he said quietly.

Fuck, even angry, he was beautiful. Jaw tight, eyes blazing, color high on his cheeks. Made me want to see him that flushed for entirely different reasons.

Not the time, Song.

"Told you what?" I asked, even though I knew.

"That there was personal history between you and Wright." He turned to look at me, and his eyes were sharp. Angry. "That he knew exactly which buttons to push."

The fury looked good on him. Made me want to push him further, see what he'd do if I really provoked him. Would he yell? Would he grab me? Would those elegant hands finally lose their control?

My jaw tightened. "It's ancient history."

"Clearly he doesn't think so." Misha's voice was controlled, but there was steel underneath. "You knew he'd do that, and you didn't warn me."

"Would it have changed anything?"

"It would have let me prepare." His hands flexed on the wheel. I watched his knuckles go white, watched the tendons stand out in his forearms. Wanted to trace them with my tongue. "I don't like walking into situations blind, Hunter."

The way he said my name—half frustration, half something else—made heat coil low in my gut. Made me hard despite everything.

"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it. "You're right. I should have told you."

Misha blinked. His grip on the wheel loosened. "Oh."

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow.

"I was prepared to argue." His lips quirked. Almost a smile. "You ruined it."

"Want me to take it back? Give you something to fight about?"

"Maybe later." The smile grew. "When we're not in a public parking lot."

I cleared my throat. "Where do you want me?"

His eyes darkened. Dropped to my mouth, then back up. "What?"

"To drop me off. Where?"

"Right. Yes." He put the van in gear, movements jerky. Flustered. "The underpass?"

Good. Let him be off-balance for once.

"Yeah."

Misha pulled out onto the road, driving in tense silence. The confrontation with Wright replayed in my head on loop. The gaslighting, the threats, the way he'd turned my entire past into a weapon.

He nodded, taking the turns without needing directions. When he pulled over near the underpass, he kept the engine running.

I stared out at the dirty underpass. “Now what?”

"We rattled him. You saw it." Misha held up the badge he'd stolen. "And we got this."

"So? What's that going to get us?"

"Access," he explained. "Wright won't start purging files right away. He needs that paper trail to get paid and to cover his own ass. But if we come back after hours…"

"You want to break in and steal those files?" I shook my head. "He just had us followed. He's probably putting extra security on everything right now."

"Do you have a better plan?" He lowered the pass. "If this is too much for you, then say the word. I don't need your help if you're uncomfortable with a little B and E."

"I'm good with it," I said. "Just want to make sure you know what you're getting into."

Misha smirked. "I have a family meeting tonight. But after that, we find the files, the real data about his trials."

"And then?"

"Then we make him pay." He got out his phone and passed it to me. "Put your number in here. I'll call you after."

His fingers brushed mine as I took the phone. Just a simple touch, but it sent electricity up my arm. Made me wonder what those hands would feel like in other places. Everywhere.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. This felt significant somehow. Like more than just exchanging numbers for an investigation. Like giving him a way to reach me whenever he wanted. Like wanting him to reach me.

When I handed it back, our fingers touched again. Lingered this time. Neither of us pulled away immediately.

Misha's breath caught.

"Don't make me wait too long," I said, voice rough.

"For the break-in?" His eyes said he knew that wasn't what I meant.

"Sure. The break-in."

His smile was slow. Knowing. "I'll call you tonight. After my family meeting."

"I'll be waiting."

I reached for the door handle.

"Hunter?"

I paused, looking back.

"What Wright said in there. About your past." Misha leaned closer across the console. Close enough that I could smell his cologne again. "That's all it is. The past. Don't let it define you today."

The kindness in his voice made me want to lean across the console and kiss him until neither of us could breathe.

Made me want to be someone worthy of his faith.

I could lean forward. Close the distance. Taste him. Find out if his mouth was as soft as it looked, if he'd yield or push back, if he'd let me have this one thing before it all went to shit.

Instead, I grabbed the door handle. "I'll wait for your call."

I climbed out before I did something stupid. Like kiss him. Like ask to come with him. Like admitting that I wanted him more than I'd wanted a fix in days.

As soon as Misha’s taillights disappeared around the corner, the craving hit hard. I wanted to shoot up until none of this mattered anymore. Until Wright's smug smile and Misha's misplaced faith both dissolved into chemical peace.

But I pulled out a cigarette instead. I took a long drag, letting the smoke burn my lungs.

I was going to disappoint him. Eventually. It's what I did.

The only question was how long I could hold out before the need for chemicals won over the need for his approval.

Before I chose the needle over those brown eyes.

My phone buzzed.

Misha: Don't forget to charge your phone. I'll need you tonight.

I stared at that message. At the promise it held. The implication.

Fuck.

Maybe I could hold out longer than I thought.