Page 131 of Vital Signs
My throat tightened with unexpected emotion. "I love you too."
Tomorrow we'd return to the Laskins and deal with Victoria Nash. But tonight, we existed in this stolen moment between violence.
Whatever came next, we'd face it together. Two monsters who'd chosen each other over everything.
Husband and husband, as Hunter's unconscious mind had already decided.
"Stop bouncing your leg."
Misha's command came through clenched teeth, his eyes never leaving the financial magazine in his lap. I responded by bouncing harder, the expensive wool pants War had forced on me scraping my thighs raw with each twitch. Not the sharp, clean burn of a needle, but enough friction to keep the real cravings at bay.
"Fuck you," I muttered.
"Later," Misha promised without looking up.
"I fucking hope so. This place makes my skin crawl." I needed a scalding shower and Misha's hands everywhere to wash away the stench of corporate power. "Nothing like bathing in blood money to make you feel dirty."
And it did. Meridian BioSystems' lobby of glass and steel pressed down on us like an operating theater where the patient was already dead. It’d been four days since Wright died, and now we sat in the heart of the corporate beast that had fed him. Boston's financial district glared through floor-to-ceilingwindows, a city built on blood money judging us for spilling a little ourselves.
The place reeked of privilege.
Misha sat beside me on a sleek leather couch, legs crossed at the ankle, not a wrinkle in his charcoal suit. Perfectly composed. Perfectly lethal.
"Your knee," he murmured, not looking up from the magazine in his lap. "Control it."
"I can't." I hooked a finger under the silk tie, yanking it looser. The damn thing dug red trenches into my neck, a collar for a dog I'd never be.
Misha's hand landed on my thigh, nails digging through expensive wool. "Find another outlet."
My cock twitched at the bite of pain. I'd traded one addiction for another. Fentanyl had given way to the precise violence of Misha's hands, his teeth, the calculated brutality he promised with every touch.
We'd walked in carrying fake credentials and real intent, Misha handing the secretary a business card for the shell company Nikita had created overnight. Victoria Nash, CEO of Meridian BioSystems, had no idea the appointment on her calendar wasn't with investors but executioners.
A woman in a tailored skirt suit strode toward us from the elevator bank, heels clicking against marble, tablet held firmly. "Ms. Nash will see you now. This way, gentlemen."
Misha stood and buttoned his jacket. I followed, yanking at my tie.
The executive elevator whisked us upward, numbers climbing toward the top floor. Misha's fingers brushed against my arm, a gentle touch where track marks still marred my skin.
Heat surged through me at his touch, my body confusing danger and desire like it always did.
The doors opened onto a reception area larger than my parents' entire house.
"Right this way." The assistant led us through double doors into an office that belonged on the glossy pages of magazines I'd once used to keep warm on winter nights.
Victoria Nash stood behind a desk big enough to perform surgery on. Late fifties, silver-streaked hair cut in a severe bob, skin pulled tight by expensive procedures that hadn't quite defeated gravity. Her gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes reminded me of long-term stimulant users, though hers came from corporate stress rather than street drugs. Tall windows framed her like a portrait, with the Boston skyline as a backdrop for her power. Her navy blue suit with subtle pinstripes screamed old money and calculated intimidation.
Her fingernails caught my attention immediately. Perfect oval manicure in bloodless nude, each nail identical to the next. I'd held enough OD victims with broken, dirt-encrusted nails to know what those pristine cuticles represented: a life untouched by physical labor or hardship. Someone who'd never dug through trash for a meal or scraped ice from a windshield for pocket change. Someone who'd never known real hunger or true desperation.
"Gentlemen." Her smile hit her mouth but died before reaching her eyes. "Meridian appreciates your interest in our pharmaceutical development program."
Misha stepped forward, hand extended. Nash shook it, and triumph flashed across his face when her eyes widened slightly. She hadn't expected him to be so handsome. So polished. So dangerous beneath the veneer.
"Thank you for meeting us on such short notice," Misha said. "Your reputation precedes you."
"As does yours, Mr. Deschamps." Nash's smile tightened fractionally. "Your venture capital firm's interest in our pharmaceutical pipeline is quite flattering."
Nikita's connections had built us a backstory solid enough to get through the door. French venture capitalists looking for pharmaceutical investment opportunities in North America. Money spoke every language.
