Page 27 of Vital Signs
"GPS tracking." He said it as if it were obvious. Like stalking people was normal behavior. "I slipped an AirTag into your pocket at the clinic."
The words took a second to process. "You put a tracker on me."
Not a question.
"I needed to find you." No apology in his voice. No hesitation.
Part of me should have been pissed. The violation was clear, deliberate. He'd tracked me like prey, followed me to this shithole, and now stood there looking at me like he had every right. But the rest of me was wondering what else he'd do to get what he wanted. What lines he'd cross. What he'd do to me if I let him.
"We need to talk," he said.
"This isn't a good time."
"When would be a good time? When you're shooting up under a bridge? When you're unconscious in an alley?" His voice stayed level, but there was steel underneath it. "We have work to do."
"Work." I laughed, the sound bitter in the cold air. "Right. How'd your family meeting go?"
His jaw tightened. "Not well."
"How badly?" I asked.
Misha's hands clenched at his sides. "They voted unanimously. Wait for proper channels. Let them investigate through legitimate means. Don't get personally involved."
"And you told them...?"
"That I was going after Wright with or without their help." He glanced at me, something fierce in his expression. "With or without their permission."
The weight of that settled between us. He'd chosen this. Chosen me. Over everything the Laskins represented. Safety. Support. Family.
"Why?" The question came out rougher than I intended.
"Why what?"
"Why me?" I gestured at myself. Blood-spattered, shaking, barely holding it together. "You could walk away right now. Should walk away. Why are you still here?"
Misha was quiet for a moment, studying me in the sickly Christmas lights. Then: "Because you stayed at the funeral home when anyone else would have run. Because you chose Tyler over your next fix. Because when I touched your shoulder, you didn't flinch. And everyone else flinches from me now."
His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the crowd still milling behind us. "Because I look at you and see someone who understands what it means to be reduced to nothing. Tobe treated like you don't matter. And I need someone who understands that, Hunter. I need..."
He stopped himself, jaw clenching.
"Need what?" I pushed.
His eyes found mine. Dark. Hungry. "You."
The word hung between us like a live wire. I winced when the movement pulled at the fresh scab on my lip. "I need to get cleaned up."
What I really meant was that I needed to find some place to shoot up. I was going to be useless to him in an hour or two once the withdrawals really started to kick my ass.
He jerked his head back toward his fancy van. "I'll take you somewhere with a bathroom."
"I'm covered in blood and mud," I said, gesturing to myself. "Don't want to mess up the upholstery."
Misha rolled his eyes. "Fuck the upholstery. Get in."
"Really?" I glanced back at the men behind me. They were all watching our interaction. "You sure?"
He tilted his head, studying me as if I was an interesting specimen. "I dated a savateur in Paris. Moroccan-French, competed professionally. Same kind of precision you just showed." Misha's eyes dragged over me. "Same beautiful violence."
