Page 28 of Vital Signs
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne even over my own stink. Close enough to see his pulse jumping in his throat.
"He used to fuck like an animal after every match." His voice dropped, rough around the edges. "Best sex I ever had. All that adrenaline, all that violence, had to go somewhere."
The implication hung between us, heavy and obvious. He wasn't talking about his ex anymore. He was talking about me. About what he wanted from me.
"So you're not the first beaten and bloody thing I've had to take care of," he finished, but his eyes said something entirely different.
You're not the first. But you could be the best.
He walked back over to the van and jerked open the passenger-side door. "Get in."
I glanced back at the crowd, which had begun to disperse. Greg was trying to start another fight. If I stayed, maybe I could earn another thirty bucks... if I lasted a few more rounds.
"Your hands are trembling."
I looked down at my hands. He was right. The tremor was getting worse. I needed to get somewhere private, somewhere I could fix this before it got bad enough to drop me.
"Hunter." He stepped closer. "You're about to be very sick. You can either let me drive you somewhere warm, or you can stumble through miles of woods while your body tries to kill you. Your choice."
Getting into a van with him was a terrible idea. He'd seen me at my worst. Seen me use everything noble about my former profession to hurt someone for thirty fucking dollars. Seen exactly what I'd become. And now he'd admitted to tracking me, following me, hunting me down like I was something worth pursuing.
But withdrawal was already making my skin feel too tight, making my muscles cramp. The walk back to camp would be hell, and I wasn't sure I'd make it before the shaking got bad enough to drop me in a snowbank.
"Fine." The word tasted like defeat. "But I'm not going to your family's house. Don't need them seeing me like this."
The back of his van was not what I'd expected based on what I'd seen in the front earlier. The interior had been completely gutted and rebuilt. Wood paneling lined the walls and ceiling, giving it a warm, cabin-like feel. Where passenger seats shouldhave been, there was a simple kitchenette on one side and bench seating that looked like it converted into a bed. It was warm inside, the heat already running, soft music playing through hidden speakers.
"You live in this?" I asked, sliding into the front passenger seat.
"Sometimes." He started the engine, pulling carefully onto the main road. "I've been working on it. Gives me somewhere to go when I need space."
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Truck stop off Route 33. You need to get cleaned up, and I need to grab some supplies." He pulled onto the main road, driving carefully through the curves.
"And after that?"
"We're breaking into Wright's clinic."
The silence between us grew heavy, charged with something I didn't want to name. The van's heating system hummed quietly, filling the space with warmth that made me drowsy despite the withdrawal starting to claw at my edges.
Misha drove like he did everything else. Controlled grace, smooth acceleration, perfect timing on the turns. I caught myself watching his hands again. Long fingers, neat nails, a single silver ring on his right middle finger that caught the dashboard lights.
"You keep staring at my hands," he said without looking away from the road.
"They're very..." I stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence without admitting things I shouldn't admit.
"Very what?"
Capable. Elegant. The kind of hands that would know exactly where to touch. How much pressure. When to be gentle and when to grip hard enough to leave marks.
"Clean," I said finally.
He laughed, low and knowing. "That's not what you were going to say."
No, it wasn't. But I'd already crossed too many lines tonight, and letting him know I'd spent the last ten minutes imagining those hands on me seemed like one line too far.
"My hands aren't clean," I said, holding up my scarred knuckles. Track marks ran up both forearms, some fresh, some old. Evidence of four years of chasing oblivion. "Nothing about me is."
