Page 117 of Vital Signs
My molars ground together hard enough to make my dentist weep. This wasn't just corruption or profit-seeking. This was deliberate fucking evil. The systematic slaughter of those society deemed worthless.
"Tyler Graham wasn't a waste," I spat his name as both curse and blessing. "He was a person. With dreams. With a future."
"He was a nobody. Nothing without the drugs. I gave him purpose."
The heat of my rage threatened to consume me from the inside out, starting in my core and radiating outward until my fingertips tingled. Hunter's face flashed in my mind. What would he do if I died here, what it would it do to his fragile recovery? I forced air into my lungs. Counted. Remembered what mattered more than the intoxicating rush of making Wright bleed out beneath my hands.
A crash sounded from upstairs, wood splintering and breaking. Wright's eyes flicked toward the ceiling, his aim wavering for half a second as animal instinct pulled his attention toward the new threat.
I lunged.
My shoulder slammed into his chest hard enough to rattle my teeth. The gun went off with a crack that split reality in two. The bullet whined past my ear to shatter a cabinet behind me. My knife was already in my hand, muscle memory taking over as I pressed the blade against Wright's throat. The edge drew a thin line of red, blood beading against pale skin.
"Move and I'll open your carotid," I hissed, pressing just hard enough to make more blood well up. His pulse hammered wildly against my blade, rabbit-quick with fear. "I'll paint this fucking room with your blood."
Wright froze beneath me, his eyes finally showing a human emotion: raw, animal fear.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, boot heels striking concrete in urgent rhythm. Then Hunter: "Misha!"
Relief flooded through me, making my hand shake against Wright's throat. Hunter burst into the room, Shepherd and Eli right behind him, followed by War and Xander. The world narrowed to him, everything else blurring at the edges until I was seeing through a tunnel that led only to his face. He was still wearing the same clothes I'd peeled off him that morning aftermaking him come twice. His hair was windswept, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, eyes wild as they searched the room.
When his gaze found mine, every cell in my body lit up like lightning surged through me. Not just relief. Hunger. Primal, desperate need that hit harder than any drug I'd ever used. He was alive. He was real. He was mine.
Hunter’s expression hardened as he took in Wright, the gun on the floor, the unconscious patients. But when his gaze returned to me, the heat there made my breath catch. I wanted to fucking devour him.
Shepherd's eyes fixed on Wright, his hands already pulling zip ties from his pocket. "Still playing doctor, I see."
War crossed the room in quick strides, dropping to his knees beside the nearest patient. His hands moved swiftly and surely, checking pulses and pupil reactions. "They're alive, but barely," he said. "Severe respiratory depression. These IV bags don't have standard labeling."
Eli moved to secure the room while Shepherd took my place restraining Wright, those thick fingers wrapping around the doctor's throat.
Hunter glanced at the timer. "Whatever that's counting down to, we need to move. Now."
Wright's laugh stopped us all cold, the sound empty of humor but full of something worse: satisfaction. "Go ahead. Take them. It won't matter. The cleaners will have sanitized the clinic by now. All the evidence is gone."
“Don’t worry,” Shepherd said calmly. “We don’t need a paper trail for what we have planned.”
Wright zeroed in on Hunter and spat, "You poor idiot. You think this is love?" Wright's laugh was broken glass. "He's using you as much as you're using him. When the real world intrudes, when the honeymoon period ends, you'll both remember that damaged people don't heal. They just damage each other."
I lunged toward Wright, but Shepherd's arm caught me across the chest, holding me back. "Let me fucking kill him!"
Wright ignored my outburst. “I can prove it. You see that black bag over in the corner? It’s full of morphine. The good stuff. Help me get out of this, and it’s yours. All the fucking opiates you want.”
Hunter's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath stubbled skin. His eyes flicked to the black medical bag near Wright's desk. Just for a second. Just long enough for a knife of ice to slide between my ribs.
I forgot how to breathe.
"Hunter, don't listen to him," I said, fighting against Shepherd's hold. "You're stronger than this. You chose me. You chose us."
"Once an addict, always an addict," Wright pressed, seeing the opening. "Fighting it is just delaying the inevitable."
"That's bullshit and you know it," I snarled, straining against Shepherd's grip.
The countdown continued, red numbers reflected in the sweat on Hunter's forehead. My heart squeezed in my chest. Wright was trying to destroy what mattered most: Hunter's fragile sobriety, the victory he'd clawed from addiction one agonizing hour at a time.
Shepherd's hand tightened on Wright's shoulder, but he made no move to silence him. This was Hunter's battle. Hunter's demon to face.
My throat closed around words I couldn't speak.
