Page 32 of Vital Signs
"You're seriously—" He broke off, jaw working. Fury and desperation warred in his expression. "Fine. Tyler was... kid reminded me what it meant to give a shit about someone besides myself. Had all these plans. Top surgery, apartment, real life." His voice cracked slightly. "Signed up for Wright's trials becausehe needed the money. Wright killed him through sheer fucking negligence."
The needle stayed where it was. Hunter's pulse thundered against my fingers.
"Now you know," he said. "Happy?"
"One more thing." I drew back the plunger slightly, watching blood bloom into the amber solution. Watching him watch it. "Say please."
"Fuck you." But there was no real heat in it. Just desperation and the knowledge that I'd already won.
"Say it." I drew back the plunger slightly more, watching blood bloom darker into the amber solution. "Ask me nicely."
His jaw worked. Pride warring with need. The addiction would win—it always won—but I wanted to watch him choose it. Watch him surrender.
"Please." The word came out broken, barely audible.
"Please what?"
His eyes blazed with fury and humiliation and something darker. Something that looked almost like gratitude. "Please give me what I need."
"Good boy."
The words were deliberate. A test. I waited to see if he'd bristle, if he'd take offense, if he'd tell me to fuck off.
Instead, his breath caught. His pupils dilated even more. His whole body responded to the praise like he'd been waiting his entire life to hear it.
Oh.
I filed that information away for later. For when we had time to explore exactly how far his submission went.
"Since you asked so nicely," I said, pushing the plunger slowly. Watching his face as chemicals flooded his system.
The sound he made was almost sexual. Breathy and desperate and satisfied all at once.
And I wanted to make him make that sound again. Wanted to find all the ways to make him fall apart. Wanted to be the thing he craved more than the needle.
But for now, I'd settle for this. For the power of giving him relief. For the knowledge that he'd begged me for it.
For the way he looked at me like I was both his salvation and his ruin.
The transformation took a minute or two. Color flooded back into his skin, the tremors stopped, his breathing deepened into something that sounded almost like contentment. His limbs went loose and heavy, shoulders melting back into the seat like gravity had doubled.
But the fentanyl didn't just ease his pain. It made him sloppy in ways that had nothing to do with motor control. His usual walls were down, leaving him raw and honest and saying things sober-Hunter would never admit.
"You're beautiful when you're cruel," he said, words honey-slow. Each syllable came out thick. "Makes me want to see how far you'll go."
I untied the tourniquet and pressed a piece of cotton to the injection site. Our faces were inches apart; his pupils constricted to tiny points. "How far do you think I'll go?"
"All the way." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the movement clumsy but deliberate. "You want something from me. Something more than just... this." He gestured vaguely between us. "You want me to want you more than I want this." He tapped the syringe. "Good luck with that."
The honesty was brutal.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Hunter said, but the words came out wrong. Too loose.
"Scared?" I challenged.
"Of you?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah. You just proved you'll do whatever it takes to get what you want. Including manipulating me while I'm vulnerable."
"And you're still here."
