Page 51 of Vital Signs
"Okay," I said. "I'll stay."
Misha's fingers pressed harder against my pulse, and I could feel his smile against my chest. "Good. Because I wasn't planning to let you leave anyway."
Hunter's restless movement toreme from sleep.
I bolted upright in the van's dim interior, heart hammering as my eyes found him hunched on the bed's edge, left leg bouncing constantly. Sweat drenched his clothes despite the cold seeping through the windows. When he tried to stand, muscle cramps forced him down again.
"Hunter." I reached for his shoulder, and he flinched away.
"Can't get comfortable." His voice was strained. "Everything aches. Feels like my bones are trying to crawl out of my skin."
I'd witnessed withdrawal before. In Paris, during my modeling days, I'd watched other models crash after fashion week binges, seen photographers shake through cocaine comedowns, witnessed the ugly aftermath when the party drugs stopped working. But watching someone I cared about suffer through it was different.
"How long?" I asked.
"Ten hours since my last hit." He wiped his nose again, then immediately repeated the motion. "The real hell starts in a couple of hours. This is just the warm-up."
"Water," I said, grabbing a bottle from the mini-fridge. "You need to stay hydrated."
Hunter's hands trembled as he took the bottle, the shaking more pronounced than it had been hours ago. When I moved to help him anyway, he jerked back.
"I don't need you to..." His voice cracked as another cramp hit his calf.
"Need me to what?" I caught his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. My thumb brushed along his jawline. "Take care of you? Because in a few hours, you're going to be puking your guts out."
Something dangerous flickered in his gaze. "Careful, pretty boy. I might be getting sick, but I'm still me."
"Good." I guided the bottle to his lips anyway, my hand settling at the back of his neck. "I'd hate for withdrawal to make you boring."
He drank, then pulled away, his restless energy making him shift constantly on the bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "There's money in my jacket," Hunter said, panic creeping in. "You could drive me to—"
"No." I caught his arm as he shifted restlessly, noting how he immediately shook me off and kept moving. My fingers found his wrist instead, circling it gently. "I survived Roche's laboratory. I bet I can handle whatever you think you'll become."
Hunter stared at me. "Why?"
Because you chose to stay last night instead of choosing the needle. Because you trusted me enough to let me witness this. Because somewhere between the clinic break-in and your mouth on my skin, I stopped being able to imagine going through this hunt alone.
"Because Tyler deserves justice," I said instead. "And Wright's going to destroy every piece of evidence while you're chasing your next fix."
A muscle jumped in Hunter's jaw, but before he could respond, the sound of car doors slamming cut through the morning air.
I moved to the window, peering through the gap between the curtains. Two vehicles had surrounded the van. My stomach dropped as I counted the figures emerging. River, Xander, and Annie.
"Fuck," I breathed.
"What?" Hunter tried to look over my shoulder, but another spasm doubled him over.
"Family."
River approached the van's rear doors, stopping just outside. His voice carried clearly through the metal walls. "Misha. Come out. We need to talk."
Hunter looked like hell, but there was no avoiding this confrontation.
"Stay here," I told Hunter, grabbing clothes from the floor. I pulled on boxer briefs and jeans quickly, the denim like ice against my skin, then grabbed a sweater and yanked it over my head. Hunter was already reaching for his own clothes, movements clumsy from the cold and withdrawal symptoms. "Try not to die while I handle this."
"Misha..."
"Stay here."
