Page 9 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

I bolted upright in bed with a gasp. My heart slammed against my ribs like a caged animal trying to escape.

Sweat had turned my shirt into a second skin.

I couldn't breathe right. Couldn't think.

The room spun around me, shadows crawling across the ceiling in patterns that didn't belong to my bedroom.

In the dream, Roche's hands had been on me again. His camera flashed. His voice told me to hold still, be beautiful, be good. And then the hands had changed, becoming Hunter's hands, but wrong. Cold instead of warm. Pushing me away instead of pulling me close.

Hunter had started saying what everyone eventually said: "You're too broken. Too much work. Not worth it."

Where was I? This wasn't right. The smell was wrong, the light was wrong, everything was—

My lamp. I needed light. My fingers fumbled for the switch, shaking so hard I nearly knocked it over. Click. Warm yellow light flooded the space, chasing away the worst of the panic.

My room. The Laskins' house. Safe.

The relief lasted about three seconds before reality crashed back in. My heart was still racing, sweat still coating my skin like a film I couldn't wash off. The familiar taste of copper filled my mouth where I'd bitten my tongue.

Another nightmare.

The last thing I remembered was driving home from the clinic, Hunter's face burned into my retinas as he'd walked away. Then nothing. A blank space where hours should have been.

My body's favorite trick when the stress got to be too much was to shut down.

Disappear. Let time pass without me having to be present for it.

The hypervigilance that kept me alive also had a breaking point, and when I hit it, my brain just..

. left. Took me offline until it decided I could handle existing again.

I sat up slowly, fighting the nausea that rolled through my stomach. My head was stuffed with cotton, heavy and disconnected from my body. Standing up took three tries. When I finally managed it, I caught sight of myself in the dresser mirror and my stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Jesus Christ.

The man staring back at me looked like he'd been hollowed out with a spoon. My eyes had dark circles carved beneath them, making me look like I hadn't slept in weeks instead of hours. My hair stuck up at odd angles, and there was something fragile about the way I held myself. Something broken.

This was what everyone saw when they looked at me. No wonder the Laskins treated me like I might shatter if they spoke too loudly.

Shame burned its way up my throat. I looked exactly like what Roche had made me. A beautiful thing he'd systematically destroyed, piece by piece.

Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck letting him win.

I could remember what it was like to be powerful. To walk into a room and watch every conversation stop, every head turn. To know exactly what I was worth and demand it without apology. That man wasn't gone. He was just buried under two years of fear and careful living.

Maybe it was time to dig him up.

Hunter had looked at me today like I was worth something. Like I was more than just trauma wrapped in expensive clothes. And when we'd stood together facing Wright, I'd gotten a taste of that old power. The confidence that came from knowing exactly who I was and what I wanted.

What I wanted was Hunter. And I wasn't going to get him by playing it safe. By being the broken thing everyone expected me to be.

Tonight, I'd face my family. Convince them that Tyler deserved justice. And then Hunter and I would break into Wright's clinic together. I was going to make sure he saw exactly who he was partnering with. Not a victim. A weapon.

I went to my nightstand and pulled out the small wooden box I kept hidden in the bottom drawer. The joint inside was perfect, rolled with artisanal cannabis that cost a fortune.

I lit up and took a long, slow drag. Roche was dead and buried and couldn't reach me here. The tension in my shoulders started to ease as the cannabis worked its way through my bloodstream.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the playlist I'd built during my modeling days. The bass line thrummed through the walls, through my bones, reminding me what confidence sounded like. What being young and queer and absolutely fucking unstoppable was like.

The second hit settled deeper, loosening knots of anxiety I'd been carrying for so long I'd forgotten they weren't supposed to be there.

I started moving to the music, small movements at first. Just my shoulders.

Then my hips. Letting my body remember what it was like to take up space instead of trying to disappear.

My body also remembered other things. Hunter's eyes on me at the coffee shop, tracking my movements with an intensity that made my skin prickle. The way he'd stiffened when I'd pressed against his back at the clinic. His hand squeezing mine.

And the way he'd looked at me when I'd stolen that keycard? It was like he wanted to pin me against the wall and find out if I'd keep that calm composure with his hands on me.

I wanted to find out too.

I opened my closet and ran my fingers over expensive fabrics I rarely wore anymore. Past the safe blacks and grays I'd adopted since Paris, back to the pieces that had made photographers fight for the privilege of dressing me.

My body had changed since Paris too. Two years of physical therapy and careful workouts to reclaim muscles that trauma had stolen. I was leaner now, harder. The softness Roche had preferred was gone, replaced by strength I'd built specifically to never be powerless again.

Strength that would let me climb through clinic windows tonight. That would let me move silently through dark hallways. That would let me press Hunter against a wall if the opportunity arose.

And I'd make sure the opportunity arose.

I ran my hands down my chest, over my ribs, feeling the firmness beneath my skin. Hunter's hands would follow the same path later. I'd make sure of it.

I stripped off my sweat-damp clothes. From my dresser, I pulled out fresh boxer briefs and my packer, the silicone weight familiar and comforting as I positioned it properly.

Such a simple thing, but it filled out my underwear the way it should, made all the difference in how the jeans would sit, how I'd carry myself.

How Hunter would see me.

Because he would see me tonight. Really see me. Not the mortician in professional black. Not the traumatized model everyone treated like glass. The real me. The one who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it.

I pulled on a fresh pair of slim black jeans and immediately became more like myself. The denim hugged in all the right places, showing off the body I'd spent years perfecting on runways and in gyms. Hunter had noticed today—I'd caught him looking. Tonight, I'd make sure he couldn't look away.

The full-length mirror showed someone different now.

The cannabis had smoothed the sharp edges of panic, and the music was reminding my body how to move with purpose instead of fear.

I worked my hands through my hair, styling it into the perfectly tousled look that had once made photographers fight for my attention.

Would Hunter want to run his hands through it? Pull it while he kissed me? Fist it while I—

Focus, Misha. Family meeting first. Seduction after.

From the deepest corner of my jewelry box, I pulled out the piece I'd refused to sell even when money had been tight. Even when I'd been tempted to hock everything I owned just to put distance between myself and the memories.

The multi-layered chain necklace of white gold and diamonds had been obscenely expensive. A gift from a designer who'd wanted to see how it looked on "the most beautiful neck in Paris."

Fuck Paris. Fuck that designer. This was mine now. A reminder of my worth when everyone tried to convince me I was broken.

I fastened it around my neck, watching in the mirror as it caught the light. The chains settled perfectly against my collarbones, drawing attention to the hollow of my throat, the sharp line of my jaw.

Hunter would notice. He noticed everything—the way I moved, the way I touched him, the calculated seduction in every gesture. And tonight, when he saw me like this?

He wouldn't be able to resist.

I wanted him to try. Wanted to watch him fight his desire, see how long his control lasted when I put my hands on him. When I pressed close and reminded him exactly why he'd been staring at the coffee shop. Why his breath had caught when I'd brushed against him.

The thought lit me up like a live wire, and suddenly my body was aching for release.

I took another hit from the joint, letting the smoke curl around me as the music pulsed. This was the man Roche had tried to erase. He was unapologetically queer, trans, and sexy as fuck. The man I was choosing to be again.

I pulled out my phone and angled it toward the mirror.

The first photo caught me mid-movement. My eyes looked directly into the camera with the kind of confidence that had made me famous.

The second showed the length of my body in those perfect jeans, the way the chains draped across my chest. The third was pure seduction.

The lean line of my torso, the way I held myself like someone who knew exactly what he was worth.

I opened Hunter's contact info, and my thumb hovered over the send button.

What would he do if he saw this version of me? Not the exhausted man in the morgue, not the careful victim everyone wanted to protect. This Misha. Confident, sexual, dangerous.

I wanted him to see me like this. Wanted to watch him forget how to breathe, wanted to be the thing he craved with the same desperation he had for fentanyl—but different. On my terms.

This was how I used to reclaim power. Make them want me so badly they'd do anything for just a taste. Roche had understood that and systematically destroyed it, reducing my body to his personal art project.

But I was taking it back now.

My finger trembled over the send button.

Then I deleted the photos.

Not because I was afraid. Not because Roche had won. But when Hunter finally saw me like this—and he would—it would be because I chose to show him. In person. Where I could watch his pupils dilate, hear his breath catch, see exactly what I did to him.

This power was mine again. I'd use it when I was ready.

The shower afterwards was a baptism, washing away the last traces of the afternoon's panic. By the time I stepped out, I was whole again. Beautiful, controlled, and very much in charge of my own narrative.

I dressed carefully for the meeting. Black jeans, a charcoal sweater, the kind of understated elegance that made people listen when I spoke. I left the chains in my jewelry box where they belonged. That version of me was mine alone, not something I needed to perform for anyone else.

Not yet.

I grabbed my keys, checked that I still had the stolen clinic keycard tucked safely in my wallet. After the meeting, Hunter and I would break into Wright's clinic. Find the evidence. Bring Wright down.

And maybe, if the opportunity arose, I'd find out if Hunter's control was as fragile as I suspected.

I checked my phone one more time. No messages from Hunter. He was probably preparing too. The familiar worry tried to creep in. What if he was using right now? What if by the time I got through this family meeting, he'd be too high to help? Too far gone to care?

No. I pushed the thought away. Hunter had agreed to this. He wanted Wright as badly as I did. He'd be there.

And when he saw me like this—confident, powerful, ready—he'd see what we could be together. Not just partners in investigation.

Partners in everything.

I headed downstairs, ready to face my family. Ready to fight for what I wanted.

Ready to fight for him.