Page 80 of Vital Signs
"You think you know what's best for me." His tone of voice woke something primal and hungry in me. "You think you have the right to decide whether I live or die."
I didn't pull away. "I think I'd rather have you alive and hating me than dead because I didn't try."
His grip tightened. "I told you I don't hate you."
I couldn't read his expression. I couldn't tell if the darkness in his eyes was anger or desire. My skin burned where he touched me, awareness crackling between us like electricity.
"Let go of me," I said quietly, not meaning it.
He didn't. Instead, his thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of my wrist. The gesture was almost gentle, at odds with the tension radiating from his body. Each tiny movement sent sparks along my nerves, my body remembering other circles he'd traced, other places he'd touched.
"This doesn't change anything," he said, but his voice had roughened. "I haven't forgiven you."
"I know." I didn't move away, didn't try to break his hold. "I'm not asking you to."
His eyes dropped to my mouth, lingered there for a heartbeat too long before jerking back up. I watched his throat work as he swallowed, the conflict written across his face. My lips parted instinctively, breath quickening as I remembered the pressure of his mouth against mine, the way he'd claimed me before everything fell apart.
"I need..." he started, then stopped, jaw tightening.
I waited, caught in the gravity between us. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. Afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing was building in the charged space between our bodies. My heart pounded against my ribs, and I wondered if he could feel it through the bare inches separating us, if he knew how much I craved his touch despite the anger still simmering between us.
His grip loosened on my wrist, but he didn't let go completely. Instead, his fingers slid down until they were barely touching mine. The contact was whisper-light yet profound, a connection that ran deeper than desire.
"I need time," he said finally, his voice strained. "I need space to figure out what happens next."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. His fingers were still touching mine, the barest point of contact that somehow was more intimate than anything we'd shared before.
"But right now," he continued, his eyes shifting, "right now, I—"
The door opened without warning. War stood in the threshold, medical bag in hand. He froze, taking in our proximity, the tension crackling between us.
Hunter dropped my hand like it burned him and stepped back, creating distance that stretched like miles after the inches that had separated us.
"Everything okay in here?" War asked, eyes moving between us.
"Fine," Hunter said, voice rough. "Just talking."
War's eyes settled on me, assessing. I tried to look normal, though my pulse still raced from whatever had just happened.
"I need to check Hunter's vitals," War said, still watching me. "You should get some air, Misha. You look flushed."
I nodded, moving toward the door on unsteady legs. As I passed Hunter, our eyes met briefly.
"We'll finish this later," he said.
The words followed me out the door, echoing in my head as I climbed the stairs. A promise. A threat. Something in between.
January cold cut throughmy clothes. Seven days clean. The physical symptoms had faded, but the cravings remained. Not the desperate clawing of withdrawal. Just presence. A voice that never shut up, always suggesting I knew what would feel better than this cigarette, this conversation, this moment.
War had practically shoved me outside. "Fresh air and sunlight," he'd said, like I was a fucking houseplant.
Some sunlight.
The sky stretched gray above me, clouds heavy with the promise of more snow. The Laskin funeral home loomed behind. I'd rather freeze to death than go back inside, where everyone stared at me with that mixture of pity and judgment. Poor Hunter, the broken addict, monitored like a toddler near traffic.
Why did it have to be Misha watching me? Everything would be simpler if we stayed away from each other. The memory of his body beneath mine kept surfacing. Fucking traitor.
The van sat at the edge of the lot, back doors open. Smoke curled from inside. Maybe Misha had something stronger. My boots crunched through the frozen grass until I stood at the open doors.
