Page 71 of Vital Signs
"Where am I?" The words scraped out of my throat before I could stop them.
"The funeral home. Recovery room." Misha shifted closer, relief coloring his voice now that I'd finally spoken. "War set up an IV."
The funeral home. Laskin territory.
"How long?" Each word cost me, but I needed to know.
"Three hours since... since we found you."
The skin over my DNR/DNI tattoo itched like fire. I got that ink so I could die my way. So nobody could force me to stay. Yet here I was.
I even told Misha what it meant, and he'd ignored it anyway.
"You should have let me go," I whispered.
Silence stretched between us.
When Misha finally spoke, his voice cracked. "I couldn't."
My hands clenched into fists, nails digging half-moons into my palms. "Not your call."
"Hunter..."
"Don't." The word came out as a growl. "Don't fucking touch me."
I hadn't seen him reach for me, but I could feel his hand hovering near mine. He withdrew without making contact.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"No, you're not." My eyes finally cut to his, taking in the dark circles beneath them, the tear tracks on his cheeks, the desperation in his gaze. "You got what you wanted. A chance to play hero. To feel better about yourself."
Pain flashed across his face. Good. Let him hurt too.
"And meanwhile, Wright's probably destroying everything," I added, bitterness coating each word. "Tyler's case is probably fucked too because of you."
My body seized suddenly, muscles contracting without warning. My back arched off the bed, jaw clenching so hard my teeth might crack. A sound escaped me, half groan, half scream.
Warm hands were suddenly on my shoulders, trying to steady me through the spasm. I jerked away violently once it passed.
"I said don't fucking touch me!" I snarled.
Misha retreated, hands raised in surrender. "War said the muscle spasms would get worse before they got better."
He pushed his hair back from his forehead, the movement drawing my attention to the slender curve of his wrist. I hated how my eyes tracked him. My body's betrayal was another violation.
The IV itched like hell. Then the smell hit me. Bleach. Disinfectant. Death.
Her hand was cold through my gloves. Her fingernails had turned blue overnight. No matter how high we cranked the oxygen, her sats kept dropping.
Across the room, her husband and daughters watched through an iPad propped on a rolling stand. Their faces pressed against their screens at home. Useless. Helpless. Watching her die while I was the only one allowed in the room.
I leaned close enough so that she could hear me through all the barriers. Through my shield, through my mask, through her oxygen mask.
"It's okay to let go."
Her husband's scream through the iPad speaker still echoes sometimes.
Just like the soft click of our front door when I staggered home at 3 AM, high out of my mind.
