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"We need to decide now," Byers grunts, struggling to maintain his grip.

I lock eyes with Dahlia. Her expression is pleading but determined. This brilliant, stubborn woman is going to be the death of me.

"Fine," I concede. "But if he so much as twitches wrong once we get him inside, I'm ending him myself."

Relief washes over her face. "Thank you."

Byers looks at me like I've lost my mind. "You can't be serious. This is too dangerous."

"He's restrained now," I argue. "And between the two of us, we can handle one infected shifter."

"And when he wakes up?" Byers challenges.

"He won't be a problem," I say with more confidence than I feel.

Byers snorts. "Right. And I should trust what you say? Why? When you literally told us this was a fucking safe house'… I see how very secure it is."

My jaw clenches. "This place has state-of-the-art security. I don't know how this fucker got past it, but I guarantee it won't happen again."

"You guarantee a lot of things," he mutters, but finally sheathes his knife.

We haul the now-unconscious shifter to his feet. He's stopped convulsing for the moment, but his skin still ripples occasionally.

"Where are we taking him?" Byers asks, supporting most of the man's weight.

"The lab," I answer, nodding toward the house. "In the basement."

Dahlia's eyes widen. "There's a lab here?"

"I told you I'd give you everything you need," I remind her, unable to keep the smugness from my voice. "Follow me."

I lead them back into the house and to a door of the kitchen that opens to a staircase. At the bottom, I punch a code into a keypad, and steel doors slide open to reveal a fully equipped research laboratory.

Dahlia gasps beside me, and I can't help the surge of pride that rushes through me.

"This is... incredible," she breathes, taking in the gleaming equipment, the computer stations, the medical supplies.

"Only the best for you, Dr. Baldwin," I say, enjoying the wonder on her face.

"Put him there," she directs, pointing to an examination table in the center of the room.

Byers and I maneuver the infected shifter onto the table. His body is heavy, dead weight now that he's unconscious.

"There are restraints built into the table," I tell them, pulling out thick leather straps from underneath. "Military grade. He won't be able to break these."

We secure his arms and legs, then add an extra strap across his chest for good measure. His breathing is shallow but steady, and blood still oozes from the wounds on his forehead.

"I need to clean those cuts," Dahlia says, already moving toward a cabinet that - yes, she guessed correctly, contains medical supplies.

"I'll do it," Byers offers, taking the antiseptic and gauze from her hands. "You shouldn't get too close until we know more about how this virus transmits."

She looks like she wants to argue but nods instead. "Fine. But I need blood samples. And tissue samples. And…"

"Slow down," I interrupt. "Let's make sure he's secure first. Then you can play mad scientist all you want."

She shoots me with a glare that could melt steel. "I'm not 'playing' anything. This is serious research that could save lives."

"I know," I say, softer. "That was a poor choice of words."