Page 15

Looking up, I find his face closer than expected. His temperature seems to spike as our gazes lock, and for a moment, the great hall fades away. There’s only the warmth of his presence, the careful way he touches the precious book, the understanding in his eyes as he watches me explore its pages.

“I should…” His voice roughens. “That is, the perimeter needs checking…”

“Of course.” But neither of us moves. His tail remains curled loosely around my wrist as I clutch the journal like an anchor.

“You two are adorable.” Volt’s thunderous whisper breaks the moment. “But maybe take the meaningful staring somewhere more… private?”

Dante’s skin flushes darker as he steps back. “Right. Perimeter. Very important.”

“Thank you,” I say again, holding the journal close. “For… everything.”

His expression softens intosomething that makes my pulse race. “Always, Doc.”

As he disappears down the corridor, I open the journal with trembling fingers. A small note falls out, written in his elegant hand: “For the brilliant scientist who sees patterns others miss. Your mind is beautiful.”

Something warm and bright explodes in my chest—an emotion too complex for any spreadsheet to capture.

My body is thrumming, my nipples pricked with wanting, my lips feel achingly alone. I’m thunderstruck with the revelation that I want to kiss him.

Me, the girl who grew up believing in things others dismissed as flights of imagination. But I wasn’t the kind of girl who fantasized about meeting one in person and discovering more about them. I had something more sinister in mind.

And yet, those dreams have evaporated into smoke. Now the only thoughts pulsing through my brain—and body—are of kissing his crimson lips, touching the gentle curve of his horns, and once again feeling the safety of being wrapped in the embrace of his leathery wings.

Some gifts speak louder than words.

Some understanding runs deeper than data.

And some desires, once acknowledged, can never be forgotten.

Chapter Eleven

Dante

The scent of healing herbs fills the infirmary as Blair prepares another wing treatment. Her movements are precise, methodical—everything laid out in perfect order, just like the ancient journal she’s been studying since I gave it to her yesterday.

“The notations about cryptid healing patterns are fascinating.” She says without looking up when I enter the room. I wonder. Is she as attuned to me as I am to her?

With fascination, I watch as she measures ingredients with careful accuracy. “Though some of the terminology required cross-referencing with other texts in the library.”

My skin warms at her dedication. Of course, she’s already diving deep into research, probably creating new spreadsheets to track her findings.

“Your enthusiasm for dusty old books is showing, Doc.” My mock scold is gentle as my tail curls with fondness as she approaches with her supplies.

“These aren’t just books.” Her eyes light with that intellectual fire that makes my breath catch. “They’re centuries of accumulated knowledge. The scientific methodology alone—” She catches my amused expression and flushes slightly. “Right. Treatment first, waxing poetic about research later.”

The gentle brush of her fingers against my wing membrane sends electricity racing through me. Every touch feels magnified since that night she let me hold her through her nightmares. The memory of her trust, her vulnerability, haunts me.

“Thank you again for the journal.” Her voice stays professional despite the intimacy of her touch as she works the healing salve into my injured wing. “It’s helping me understand so much about cryptid physiology.”

“Figured you’d appreciate someone else’s analytical approach.” I release a small moan as her hands find a particularly sensitive spot. The moment I sit on the exam table, my tail wraps around her waist of its own accord.

She doesn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers trace the edge of my wing with devastating thoroughness. “These markings here…” Her breath catches as she discovers another scar. “This wasn’t from the initial injury.”

Darkness creeps across my skin. “It’s nothing.”

“It’snotnothing.” Her touch gentles further, though her voice carries steel. “The strange purplish discoloration along the membrane’s edge concerns me more than the obvious wound. It’s unlike any bruising pattern I’ve seen in my research. Dante, what really happened?”

The concern in her expression makes my chest tight. If she knew the truth—about my failure, my shame—she wouldn’t look at me with such care. My knees tense as I prepare to retreat.