Page 97 of Vital Signs
"Fine," I said. "But if anyone mentions my addiction or tries to talk about my feelings, I'm out."
"Deal." Misha's smile lit something in my chest I didn't want to examine too closely. He squeezed my wrist once before releasing it. "Let's go meet the family."
Family. The word tasted foreign on my tongue. I hadn't spoken to my parents in years. The Laskins, though. They were something else entirely. A collection of killers and vigilantes who somehow functioned as a unit. Who loved each other fiercely despite, or maybe because of, their broken edges.
The living room looked like a war council. Maps, photos, timelines of deaths.
And people. So many fucking people.
"There they are!" a mountain of a man boomed, crossing the room in three steps. Before I could back away, he'd wrapped Misha in a bear hug that lifted him off his feet. "You had everyone worried, little bit."
"Put me down, Paxton," Misha grumbled, but his smile said something else entirely.
Paxton set him down, then turned those laser-focused eyes on me. I tensed, waiting for judgment. For commentary about my track marks or gaunt face or the way my hands still trembled slightly. Instead, he stuck out a hand the size of a dinner plate.
"Welcome to the madhouse," he said, grip firm enough to hurt. "I'm Paxton, War's husband."
"Hunter," I replied unnecessarily, startled by the simple greeting.
Paxton nodded toward the slender man still obsessively arranging papers. "You remember my better half, Warrick."
War's sharp eyes scanned me. "Tremor's almost gone. Heart rate slightly elevated, but normal for stress."
"War," Paxton warned, "we talked about this. Not everyone appreciates being medically assessed as a greeting."
War's eyebrows pinched together. "This is follow-up care."
"You were being yourself," Paxton said, pulling War against his side like a favorite toy. "Which I love, but maybe start with 'hello' next time."
"Hello, Hunter," War said, looking confused about why that mattered. "Your liver enzymes should be approaching normal levels by now, but I'd avoid alcohol for at least thirty days."
I laughed. No pity, just clinical honesty. "One addiction at a time is plenty."
Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could be part of something that didn't require hiding who I was.
Misha's hand brushed against mine, a silent question. I nodded once, letting him know I was handling this shit. The touch was brief but solid. Real.
The dining room table was set for twenty. Annie adjusted place settings while monitoring everyone. Yuri followed behind her, pouring wine into glasses, his composed presence commanding the room even in this domestic setting.
"Annie's been cooking all day," Misha murmured, noticing my stare. "Family dinners are a thing here."
"I'll say." The table could seat a small platoon. "How many people are coming?"
"Everyone." Misha's expression darkened slightly. "We've got thirty-four hours before Wright makes his calls. The whole family needs to hear the plan."
My stomach clenched. Right. The deadline. In all the domesticity, I'd almost forgotten we were here to plan a murder, not just eat meatloaf.
“Hi.” I turned to see a tall, skinny, platinum-haired young man in an oversized sweater. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Eli." His voice was deeper than I expected from someone with his delicate features. "Shepherd's partner."
“He’s basically Shephard’s bitch,” Misha said, bumping shoulders with Eli.
Eli gave him a shove back, but smiled. “Say that to his face.”
Misha snorted. “I’d rather not become an appetizer.”
Eli chuckled and nodded toward the back door. "Smoke break's starting if you want to join. Xander's already out there."
Something twisted in my gut at the name. Our last encounter hadn't exactly been friendly. I glanced toward Misha, who nodded.
