Page 17 of Vital Signs
"I would hate for someone to spread damaging rumors about my research," Wright continued, his voice still soft. But something had shifted in his expression. The polished facade cracked slightly, revealing something harder underneath. "Especially someone with Mr. Song's credibility issues. And I'd hate even more for a young man like yourself to get caught up in... well. Let's just say that making unfounded accusations against university faculty tends to have consequences. For everyone involved."
He looked at both of us, letting that sink in.
"Now, I have patients waiting. Real patients with real problems who need real medical care. Not conspiracy theories and accusations." He pulled out his phone, making a show of it. "I think I should probably document this interaction. For safety purposes. Two individuals, one with a known history of theft and substance abuse, making threatening statements. I'm sure Security will want a full report."
He started typing, speaking as he did. "And I'll need to notify the university police. Maybe even file a formal complaint. Which I’m sure would reflect rather poorly on the Laskin family funeral home, no?"
Wright looked up from his phone, smile cold. "Unless, of course, you'd like to leave now. Voluntarily. Before this becomes... official."
"We're leaving," I said. "But we'll be back. Count on it."
Outside, the winter air hit like a slap. As we approached the parking lot, a black sedan with tinted windows and government plates pulled in. It parked near the entrance but didn't kill the engine.
"We need to go," I said. "Now."
"Is that—"
"Someone Wright called. Probably." I grabbed Misha's arm, pulling him toward the street. "Move."
We walked quickly but didn't run. Running would draw attention. Behind us, I heard a car door open.
"Hunter." Misha's voice was tight. "Someone's following us."
I risked a glance back. A man in a dark suit had gotten out of the sedan. He wasn't rushing, just keeping pace about fifty yards back. Watching.
"Keep walking," I said. "Don't look back again."
We turned a corner, then another. The man stayed with us, never closer, never farther. Not aggressive. Just there. A reminder that Wright knew where we were, what we were doing.
Finally, we reached Misha's van. I climbed in, and only then did the man stop. He stood on the corner, hands in his pockets, and pulled out a phone, aiming it at us like he was recording.
Then he turned and walked away.
Misha started the engine but didn't pull out. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white.
"You should have told me," he said quietly.
Fuck, even angry, he was beautiful. Jaw tight, eyes blazing, color high on his cheeks. Made me want to see him that flushed for entirely different reasons.
Not the time, Song.
"Told you what?" I asked, even though I knew.
"That there was personal history between you and Wright." He turned to look at me, and his eyes were sharp. Angry. "That he knew exactly which buttons to push."
The fury looked good on him. Made me want to push him further, see what he'd do if I really provoked him. Would he yell? Would he grab me? Would those elegant hands finally lose their control?
My jaw tightened. "It's ancient history."
"Clearly he doesn't think so." Misha's voice was controlled, but there was steel underneath. "You knew he'd do that, and you didn't warn me."
"Would it have changed anything?"
"It would have let me prepare." His hands flexed on the wheel. I watched his knuckles go white, watched the tendons stand out in his forearms. Wanted to trace them with my tongue. "I don't like walking into situations blind, Hunter."
The way he said my name—half frustration, half something else—made heat coil low in my gut. Made me hard despite everything.
"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it. "You're right. I should have told you."
