Page 70 of Vital Signs
I nodded, pulling a chair close to the bed. "I'm not leaving him again."
War checked the monitors one final time, his mouth a tight line of disapproval. "The family is worried about you."
"I know." I didn't look away from Hunter.
"They're angry too. And after this stunt? Can't say I blame them."
"I know that too."
War packed his medical bag with sharp, efficient movements. "I'll come back to check his vitals in an hour. Try not to get emotionally attached to someone who'd choose chemicals over you without hesitation." He paused at the door. "Medical care only. That's all I'm offering here."
As War left the room, I collapsed into the chair beside Hunter's bed. My hand found his, fingers interlacing even though he was unconscious. Even though he might pull away when he woke. Even though I had no right to touch him after what I'd done.
I couldn't stop. Couldn't bear the distance.
His skin was warmer now, his breathing steadier. The monitors beeped a reassuring rhythm in the silent safe room.
What right did I have to save him? None. My need to prove I hadn't abandoned him had overridden his most personal choice. I'd stolen his autonomy as surely as Roche had stolen mine.
My thumb traced circles on his palm, the guilt spreading through me like poison.
Wright had spent my arrest hours moving pieces on a board I couldn't see. Restraining orders. Custody petitions. Legal threats. While I'd been handcuffed, he'd been dismantling our case.
I had saved Hunter's life by becoming what I feared most—someone who steals choice, who violates autonomy, who decides for others what's "best."
And in doing so, I might have lost Tyler's only chance at justice.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, knowing sorry meant nothing. Knowing he'd never forgive me. "I'm so fucking sorry."
I always wondered whatit'd be like to die. Turns out, it was peaceful. Being yanked back into my body? That's what hurt like hell.
The ceiling spun above me. Not the van. My throat burned raw. Every muscle screamed at once, spasming randomly. An IV stuck in my arm.
Alive. Still fucking alive when all I'd wanted was relief from the pain.
I knew without looking that Misha sat beside the bed. His presence filled the space. The weight of his guilt pressed down on me like a physical thing.
Good. Let him stew in it. Let him feel a fraction of what I was feeling.
"Hunter?" His voice floated somewhere to my left. "Are you with me?"
I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting the uneven bumps in the plaster. One. Two. Three. Anything to avoid looking at the asshole who'd dragged me back from peace. Anything to avoidseeing the face I'd memorized, the eyes that had seen the worst of me and stayed anyway. The only person in years who'd made me want to keep breathing. Until now.
I heard the soft clink of a cup, then a straw appeared in my peripheral vision, Misha's slender fingers wrapped around the plastic. Those same fingers that had mapped every inch of my skin just days ago. The memory made my stomach tighten with want I had no right to feel anymore.
"You need fluids," he said, voice gentle as if talking to a spooked animal. "Please."
That voice. Soft and smooth with a hint of accent. It still made my skin warm despite everything. Pissed me off how much I still wanted to hear him say my name.
I turned my head away, ignoring how the movement sent black dots dancing across my vision. The straw retreated without further comment.
My skin crawled. Sweat soaked the sheets while chills wracked my frame. Every nerve ending screamed.
Being alive hurt so much worse than dying.
The hit had been merciful. Peaceful. Just enough fentanyl to stop the pain. Just warmth spreading through my veins, my consciousness floating above my failing body. Until the Narcan ripped me back.
My left leg started bouncing without my permission. The movement sent waves of nausea through my gut. I gritted my teeth as warm liquid trickled down my thigh. Great. I was pissing myself now. The indignity of withdrawal was complete.
