Page 55 of Vital Signs
"We'll see who's begging whom. Don't think withdrawal makes me harmless, pretty boy."
"I'd be disappointed if it did."
Hunter was quiet for a moment, studying my face. When he spoke, his voice carried something I hadn't heard before. Certainty. "Wright's going to pay for Tyler. For everyone he's killed. Whatever it takes."
"Whatever it takes," I agreed.
The walls were fuckingbreathing.
I watched them expand and contract, knowing it wasn’t real.
"Hunter?" Misha’s voice. That damn accent. It was all that was keeping me grounded in reality.
Every nerve screamed. My hands used to save lives. Now they shook like a junkie's.
Fuck. That was exactly what I was.
Misha knelt beside me, and I wanted to tell him to run. Instead, when he pressed a cool cloth to my forehead, relief flooded through me so intensely I nearly sobbed.
"How long was I out?" My voice sounded as if I'd been swallowing razor blades.
"About twenty minutes. You were talking to someone." The cloth moved to my neck. "Your temperature's climbing."
My left leg bounced as if it had its own electrical system. The panic built behind my ribs like steam in a pressure cooker. Everything ached down to the cellular level, like my DNA was trying to rewrite itself.
"Make it stop," I gasped, reaching for him. "Please, I can't—"
"I'm trying." His voice was so gentle it made my chest crack open. "Tell me what helps."
Nothing helped, but he didn’t want to hear that.
Nausea slammed into me, and I doubled over. My stomach clenched so violently I thought my ribs might crack. Nothing came up but bitter acid, but my body kept trying to turn itself inside out anyway.
"Breathe," Misha whispered, one hand rubbing circles on my back. "Stay here with me."
Stay here. Like my body wasn't holding me hostage while my brain kept offering the same bargain: one hit and all of this stopped.
"This is nothing," I panted. "The real hell hasn't even started yet."
Fear crept into his voice. "What's coming?"
Smart man. Fear was the right response.
"Hallucinations. Muscle spasms that feel like seizures. Fever that might actually kill me." I grabbed his wrist because I needed something solid to anchor me. His pulse beat steadily and strongly under my fingers. Alive. Present. Real. "By tonight, I'll be ready to kill for a fix."
"We'll get through it."
"You don't understand." My grip tightened. "I've tried this before. Made it three days once before I broke into a veterinary clinic and stole ketamine meant for horses." The memory burned like acid. "I'll hurt you if you get between me and relief. I'll say things that will make you hate me."
"Try me."
Two words and something cracked open in my chest because he said it like he meant it.
All those patients I couldn't save. At least I could still confirm he was alive. My hand moved to his wrist, and I clung to the steady feel of his pulse beneath my fingers.
"What are you doing?" His voice was soft, curious instead of annoyed.
"Checking that you're okay." The admission slipped out before I could stop it. "It's the only way I know how to care right now. It feels... grounding. Familiar."
