Page 119 of Vital Signs
We stumbled through the door into the night. Fresh air hit my face, January cold slicing through the toxic fumes still clinging to us, painful and cleansing and perfect. We made it twenty feet before my legs gave out beneath me, bringing Hunter down with me in an ungraceful tangle of limbs. We collapsed onto frozen grass, tearing off the makeshift masks and gulping clean air that tasted better than any wine, any drug, any pleasure I'd ever known.
Behind us, Wright's house was fully engulfed, orange flames shooting through the roof, black smoke billowing into the night sky. The evidence was burning, just as planned. But we had Wright himself. We had saved three victims. We had the beginning of justice.
More importantly, we had survived. Both of us. Together.
Hunter's hand found mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining despite both of us trembling from the chemical exposure. The contact sent electricity arcing through me, every nerve ending suddenly, painfully alive. His eyes reflected the dancing flames, but he wasn't looking at the fire. They were looking at me with an intensity that sent heat straight to mygroin despite everything we'd just survived. That look burned with hunger.
Even covered in soot and reeking of chemical smoke, even trembling from exposure and fear, he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
I pressed my forehead against his, breaths mingling in the cold air. "Je t'aime," I whispered against his lips, my accent thickening with emotion until the words came out soft and musical, the way French was meant to sound. "Je t'aime. You’re everything to me."
His eyes widened, pupils expanding in the firelight, breath catching in his throat. The vulnerability there undid me completely. I knew what my native language did to him, how it made his breath catch and his hands grip tighter.
I kissed him then, desperate and tender all at once, tasting smoke and sweat and him, both of us still carrying the acrid remnants of our escape. His mouth opened under mine like he'd been starving for this, tongue sliding against mine with hunger that matched my own. His stubble scraped deliciously against my skin as I angled his head exactly where I wanted it. The familiar texture, the taste of him underneath smoke and fear crashed over me like a drug hit, better than any chemical high because it was him, choosing me, wanting me back.
I bit his lower lip gently, then soothed the sting with my tongue, swallowing the soft moan that escaped his throat.
"You’re killing me," he gasped against my mouth.
"Good," I growled, trailing my lips along his jaw. "I want you dead from wanting me."
"When we get home," Hunter said, voice rough with smoke and promise, his eyes dark with want, "I'm going to show you exactly what you are to me. I'm going to take you apart until you forget everything but my name."
My cock throbbed at the threat, at the heat in his voice. I wanted that. Needed it. Needed him to prove we were both real, both alive.
"How long do we have to wait?" I asked, already aching for him.
"Too long," he said, pressing closer until I could feel the hard line of his erection against my hip. "But it'll be worth it."
Around us, the Laskins moved quickly, loading patients and Wright into vehicles. Shepherd appeared above us, his expression grim.
"Move it," he barked. "Fire department's five minutes out, maybe less. We need to be gone before they arrive."
I struggled to my feet, pulling Hunter up with me. His arm went around my waist for support. Despite the smoke, the fire, the chaos, his solid warmth pressed against me. Alive. Still mine.
"Can you walk?" I asked.
"With you? Yeah." His voice was hoarse from the chemical smoke, but his eyes were clear. Determined.
War jogged over, medical bag in hand. "Both of you, in the SUV. Now. I need to check you for smoke inhalation once we're clear."
As we stumbled toward the vehicle, sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Hunter's hand found mine, fingers interlacing as we climbed into the backseat.
Wright lay unconscious across from us, zip-tied and sedated. His face was calm in the dim light, but when he woke up, his last hours would be anything but peaceful.
The Factory squatted inthe darkness like something carved from nightmares.
Shepherd's property stretched across twenty acres of Ohio nowhere, the main building a converted meat packing plant that had probably processed thousands of cattle before the industry moved south. The loading docks and rail spurs remained, along with the industrial drainage and refrigeration systems.
Now it served a different purpose, but the function remained eerily similar.
My boots crunched across gravel as we dragged Wright from the SUV. The building's bones were all wrong angles and utilitarian brutality, designed for efficiency over aesthetics.
The sedative War had pumped into Wright was wearing off, his head lolling from side to side, eyes struggling to focus. Good. He needed to be awake for what came next.
The exterior lights cut harsh shadows across Wright's face, highlighting every line, every pore, every fucking atom of the man who'd killed Tyler like he was nothing.
"Move," I growled, shoving Wright toward the entrance.
