Page 120 of Vital Signs
Misha appeared at my elbow, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine, and the world suddenly made sense again. The contact steadied something inside me that had been vibrating at the wrong frequency since we'd pulled Wright from that burning house.
"You ready for this?" he asked.
I turned to look at him properly for the first time since the rescue, drinking in the sight of him alive and whole and here. Smoke still clung to his hair, soot streaked his cheek, but those brown eyes held the same fierce intelligence that had first captivated me in Tyler's examination room. Beautiful and dangerous, and absolutely mine.
"Been ready since I saw Tyler's body on that table," I said, then leaned closer, voice dropping to something only he could hear. "But first, I need you to know something."
His eyes darkened with interest. "Tell me."
"When we get home tonight," I breathed against his ear, close enough that he'd feel my breath on his skin, "I'm going to show you exactly how much missing you destroyed me. I'm going to worship every inch of skin that almost burned, kiss every place I thought I'd never touch again."
Misha's breath caught, pupils dilating despite our surroundings. Heat flared between us, the same electricity that had sparked in Wright's clinic when we'd kissed with security chasing us.
The entrance opened onto a reception area that looked normal enough. Shepherd's coat hanging on a hook. Coffee cups on a side table. A stack of Popular Mechanics magazines. Nothing to suggest what waited deeper in the building.
"This way," Shepherd said, leading us past the civilian facade.
Through a reinforced door, the Factory revealed its true nature. Industrial lighting. Concrete floors stained dark inplaces no amount of bleach would touch. The air carried the metallic taste of old fear mixed with industrial disinfectant.
War had already set up a medical station in one corner, monitors beeping as he tended to the three patients we'd pulled from Wright's basement. The woman's breathing had stabilized. One of the men was conscious now, confused but alive. The third still lay unconscious, but his color was better.
"They'll live," War reported without looking up from his work. "Whatever Wright was testing, we caught it early enough."
Wright's legs gave out as the sedative fully cleared his system. I caught him by the collar, hauling him upright. His eyes swept the room, evaluating the setup like he was touring a rival's laboratory.
"Interesting facility," he said, voice steady despite the zip ties cutting into his wrists. "Though I question the sterility protocols."
The fucker was actually critiquing our torture setup.
"Sterility won't be your biggest concern," Shepherd replied, gesturing toward a chair bolted to the concrete floor. "Sit."
Even zip-tied and kidnapped, he carried himself like he was attending a medical conference instead of facing execution.
I shoved him hard into the chair . His spine hit the metal with a crack that echoed off concrete walls.
Wright's eyes tracked Misha's movement, pupils dilating slightly. Fear maybe, or sexual interest. With men like Wright, the two emotions often occupied the same space.
"You're the mortician," Wright observed. "I remember you from the funeral home. Quite striking, if a bit... dramatic in your presentation."
My hands clenched into fists. The casual way he reduced Misha to an aesthetic evaluation was the same tone he'd used when calling Tyler "raw material." Like people existed for his consumption.
"Let's establish some ground rules," Shepherd said, pulling up a second chair. He sat backwards on it, arms crossed over the back, close enough to Wright that their knees almost touched.
From his jacket, he produced a digital recorder, setting it on the floor between them. The red light began blinking immediately.
"Everything you say from this point forward is being recorded," Shepherd said. "You're going to tell us everything about your pharmaceutical trials. Every detail. Every person involved. I want names and details."
"I'm bound by patient confidentiality laws," Wright replied smoothly. "And research protocols have strict disclosure guidelines."
The laugh that escaped my throat sounded like breaking glass. "Patient confidentiality? You murdered twenty-seven people."
"Research subjects," Wright corrected, unfazed by his situation. "Who provided valuable data through their participation. The fact that some didn't survive the full trial protocol doesn't negate the scientific value of their contribution."
Shepherd nodded once to War, who stepped forward with a leather case. He unrolled it on the side table, revealing an array of surgical instruments. Wright glanced at them with professional interest rather than fear.
"Standard surgical kit. Adequate quality, though I prefer German instruments myself. The steel holds an edge longer." He smiled thinly. "If this is intended to frighten me, you should know I've performed over two thousand surgeries. The human body holds few mysteries for me."
War selected a small pair of bone cutters. The metallic snick echoed in the concrete room.
