Page 99 of Vital Signs
Something twisted in my chest watching them. I shouldn't be witnessing this. It was a private pain I had no right to intrude on. I started to back away, but Misha's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist.
"Stay," he said, not looking at me. "This involves you too."
I froze, caught between wanting to escape and needing to understand whatever was happening between them. The tension on the porch had shifted from hostile to raw, exposed.
Misha stepped closer to Xander, still gripping my wrist. "You're my brother. That hasn't changed."
"You chose him over me."
"It was about making my own decisions."
I tensed, waiting for Misha to defend me. Instead, he moved closer to Xander, letting go of my wrist to take his friend's face between his palms. The gesture was shockingly intimate, not romantic, but deeply familiar.
"You're the one who taught me to trust my gut," Misha said, voice so soft I had to strain to hear. "To fight for what I believe in. To choose my own path."
Xander's lower lip trembled. "Not like this."
"Exactly like this." Misha pressed their foreheads together. "You showed me how to be brave after Roche. How to reclaim my life. Now I'm doing it, and you're scared because you don't like my choices."
"I'm scared for you," Xander admitted, voice cracking. "Because I know what happens when someone pulls you in too deep."
I flinched, knowing he meant me. Knowing he wasn't entirely wrong.
Misha pulled back, holding Xander's gaze. "Hunter isn't Roche."
"How do you know?" Xander's voice dropped to a whisper. "How can you be sure he won't hurt you too?"
I wanted to defend myself, to argue that I'd never hurt Misha like Roche had. But the words died in my throat. I'd already hurt him by relapsing. Already broken something by rejecting his care after he'd saved my life.
"I can't be sure," Misha said finally. "But that's my choice to make. My risk to take."
Xander's face showed resignation, maybe, or acceptance. "You really care about him."
It wasn't a question, but Misha answered anyway. "Yes."
Xander's eyes locked onto mine over Misha's shoulder. The hostility had faded, replaced by something more complex. "And you?" he asked. "Do you care about him?"
The question caught me off guard. Did I care about Misha? The man who'd dragged me back from death against my wishes? Who'd held me through withdrawal, cleaned my vomit, counted my breaths? Who'd trusted me with his body and his trauma and his fury?
"Fuck yes," I said, the rawness of my voice surprising even me. "More than I ever thought I could care about anyone again."
Xander studied me for a long moment, searching for something in my face. Whatever he found made him nod once, decision made.
"If you break his heart, I'll carve you into pieces so small they'd fit in a matchbox. I've had practice making people disappear."
The threat should have sounded like B-movie dialogue. It didn't. There was no heat in his voice, no anger, just the calm certainty of someone stating an inevitable fact.
"Understood," I replied, equally calm. I respected his directness, his willingness to threaten me to Misha's face. It showed a loyalty I'd rarely seen.
Misha glanced between us, mouth quirking in something close to amusement. "Are we done with the dick-measuring now?"
Xander rolled his eyes, but the tension had broken. "For now."
Misha stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Xander in a tight embrace. For a moment, Xander stayed stiff, but then he melted into it, his own arms coming up to return the hug with equal intensity. They clung to each other like survivors of the same shipwreck, foreheads pressed together.
"You're stuck with me," Misha murmured. "Always have been."
Xander's laugh was watery but genuine. "God help me."
