Page 96 of Vital Signs
"Good." Hunter's voice was fierce. "He deserved worse."
The validation stunned me. Not horror at what I'd done, but approval. Recognition that some deaths are justified.
"The police ruled it a suicide?" Hunter asked.
"Overdose. Xander made it look like Roche was using alone. They found him in his studio with his own drugs in his system."
"And the Paris charges Wright mentioned?"
"Roche's family never believed the suicide story. They've been pushing for an investigation. That's why my visa situation is precarious. If they connect me..."
"They won't." Hunter's certainty was absolute. "Because Wright won't be around to make that call to ICE."
Hunter's hand found mine, our fingers interlacing. The deadly focus I saw there would have frightened anyone else.
"Wright's dead." The words fell from his lips like stones, hard and absolute. "That fucker doesn't deserve oxygen while Tyler's in the ground."
I stared at him. "I need Wright to know. I want him to see my face. I want him to understand exactly who's ending him and why."
Hunter turned to face me fully. "Then we go down together. I'd rather spend life in prison with you visiting me than be free without you."
My throat tightened. "Hunter—"
"I mean it." He cupped my face. "Four years I chose death slowly, one needle at a time. Now I'm choosing life with you. Even if that life includes murder. Even if it's short. As long as we're together."
"Je t'aime," I whispered. I love you.
His eyes widened. Though he didn't speak French, he knew what that meant.
"I love you too," he said. "Even damned. Especially damned."
I brushed my lips against his, the kiss tasting of copper and promise. "His blood won't dirty us. It'll sanctify the fucking ground."
Hunter's arms tightened around me, his voice low and intense. "Twenty-three people, Misha. He killed twenty-three people like they were nothing."
"And we're going to be the last faces he ever sees," I vowed.
His smile was all teeth, beautiful and terrifying. "He won't even see us coming. But he'll know when the end comes. He'll know exactly who's sending him to hell."
The house smelled likehome: herbs, bread, coffee. My stomach knotted with memories of my mother's kitchen.
My body still ached from earlier, every mark Misha left burning like the best kind of high.
Noise hit us on the stairs, and my pulse spiked. Too many voices.
"I should go," I muttered, stopping dead.
Misha turned, eyes narrowing. "Why?"
I jerked my chin toward the chaos below. "This is your family."
"And?"
"And I don't fucking belong here."
Misha studied me for a moment, his eyes softening. "Maybe not yet." He reached out, fingers curling around my wrist. "But you'll never know if you don't try."
The simple touch anchored me. His thumb brushed over my pulse point, counting my heartbeats like they mattered. Like I mattered.
