Page 35 of Vital Signs
"Yes."
"But you can't stop seeing it that way. Can't stop finding things beautiful that shouldn't be."
"No."
His hand squeezed my thigh. "Good. I don't want you to."
"Is this wanting?" I asked. "Or is it the drugs talking?"
"Both," he said simply. "But the drugs just make me brave enough to say it out loud."
His thumb stroked across my knuckles, a small gesture that sent heat straight through me.
"When this is over," I said carefully, "when you're sober again—"
"I'll still want you." His certainty was absolute despite the chemical haze. "The drugs don't create feelings, Misha. They just strip away the reasons you hide them."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that this wasn't just the fentanyl making him pliant and honest and willing to see me as something other than broken.
But I'd learned the hard way that wanting something didn't make it real.
"Come on," I said, pulling my hand away. "We have a break-in to commit."
His smile was knowing. "Running away?"
"Strategic retreat."
"Same thing."
"Probably." I grabbed the cloning device from the glove box. "But we're doing it anyway."
Because breaking into clinics was safer than letting myself hope.
Hunter got out of the van, movements still slightly loose but functional. The fentanyl had done its job—taken away the withdrawal, made him steady enough for what came next.
But it had also stripped away his defenses. Made him soft and honest and dangerously willing to show me all the parts of himself he usually kept hidden.
And God help me, I wanted every single one of them.
"You're going to ruin me," he said, and it wasn't quite a question.
"Probably."
"And I'm going to let you."
"I know."
"Then let's go destroy Wright's world."
Misha
Hunter slumped against thepassenger seat while I drove, head tipped back, pupils still constricted to pinpoints. His breathing had that slow, deep rhythm of someone wrapped in chemical cotton.
I couldn't stop watching him. The way his hands rested palm-up in his lap, fingers curled like he was holding something precious. I wanted to bite his throat, suck hard enough to leave bruises that would make his track marks look like pale scratches in comparison.
I was jealous of the fentanyl. Right now, it owned him more than I did.
"You do this often?" I asked. "Protect people at the camp?"
