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“What gave it away? The devilishly handsome looks or the timely rescue?” My fangs flash in what I hope is a reassuring grin.

Her quiet laugh turns into a cough. “Sarcasm… matches reports…”

“My reputation precedes me.” Her attempt at humor, despite obvious fear, sparks unexpected warmth. “Think you can hold on if I carry you?”

She manages a tiny nod before her eyes roll back. Right. Time to go.

Gathering her carefully against my chest, I try not to notice how perfectly she fits. Or how her fingers curl into my shirt as though seeking safety even while unconscious. My wings curve forward instinctively, creating a protective shelter around her slight form despite the sharp pain in my injured right wing.

“Package secured.” Speaking quietly into my comm. “Exit route clear?”

“Two guards approaching via west stairs.” Volt’s warning carries urgency. “Take the maintenance shaft. And Dante? More company just arrived at the loading docks. Hurry.”

“Hear that, Doc? Looks like we’re taking the service entrance.” Adjusting my grip on the unconscious scientist. “Less glamorous, but I’ll try to make it memorable.”

No response. Her breathing stays steady but shallow against my chest. Whatever they gave her, it’s strong enough to keep her unconscious despite being jostled against me as I run. My injured wing protests as we navigate the narrow maintenance shaft, but I barely notice the pain. Not when Blair burrows closer, seeking warmth or safety or both.

Something protective and fierce expands in my chest—an instinct I’ll examine later. Much later. For now, there’s a brilliant, mysterious woman to rescue. And if the price of success is enduring a little more pain, keeping a few more secrets?

Well, that’s a bargain this devil is willing to make.

Chapter Two

Blair

Consciousness returns slowly, accompanied by the steady beep of medical equipment. Even before opening my eyes, my analytical mind begins cataloging what I can perceive. The steady rhythm of a heart monitor suggests my pulse is elevated. My breathing feels measured but shallow. Pain radiates through my body—not overwhelming, but enough to register on my internal scale.

I recall a deep voice, strong arms, and a wild, dangerous scent. Those details seem too vivid for a sedative-induced hallucination.

“Welcome back to the land of the living. Though technically you didn’t miss much—it’s only been about six hours.” That voice. The same one from my fragmented memories, now tinged with what my data-driven mind categorizes as Type B-3 sarcasm—deflective humor with 72.8% probability of masking genuine concern. I’ve never been good at detecting sarcasm, but I’ve developed a classification system through years of observation.

Forcing my eyes open, I blink until the world comes into focus. I’m in what appears to be an infirmary, though unlike any I’ve seen. Crystal formations stud the rock walls, casting a soft ambient glow that’s easier on my sensitive eyes than fluorescent lights.

The walls look like stone, the smooth surfaces polished to a subtle sheen. Medical equipment—a mix of modern technology and what appears to be crystal-powered devices—lines one wall, while shelves of carefully labeled herbs and compounds occupy another.

The examination table beneath me is surprisingly comfortable, padded with what feels like handcrafted cushions. The air carries a faint herbal scent, clean but not antiseptic, with notes of lavender and something earthier I can’t identify. Several smaller crystal clusters pulse with gentle rhythms that somehow feel soothing to my frayed nervous system.

Through the fog of medication, tactical details surface unbidden—defensible position against the wall, natural concealment. The kind of location Dad would have approved of, once upon a time. I push the thought away, adding another tally to my mental count of unwanted memories.

Voices echo from somewhere nearby—muffled conversations about security protocols and surveillance. From what I can hear, they seem to be handling multiple situations simultaneously. The information organizes itself neatly in my mind: different teams with separate objectives, strategic resource allocation. Logical.

And there, lounging with deceptive ease in an overstuffed armchair beside my bed, sits my rescuer. Initial observation notes form automatically in my mind: Subject: Male Jersey Devil (classification Cryptid-D4 according to taxonomy).

Gray, ridged horns that hug his skull. Generally humanoid in appearance. Skin that shifts between deep crimson and something darker. Wings, currently folded, but impressive in span based on earlier recollection. Right wing secured in a supportive brace. Black hair that is just short of his shoulders. Hooves, arrow-tipped tail, clawed fingers that are retracted like a cat’s, human-like face, pointed ears, lush, full lips and intense garnet red eyes. His fangs are visible when he speaks—yet his smile holds no threat.

He’s wearing a black vest and pants.

“So, the rescue wasn’t a dream.” Rather than showing my relief, my voice sounds rough—too many days screaming in pain, I guess. Scientific detachment fails me as my silver hair falls forward. The lavender streaks are more pronounced in the crystal light.

I absently wonder why I let my cousin test her cosmetology skills on me with such an odd color combination. Then I realize my cognitive functions must be impaired if I’m focused on something so irrelevant.

“No. Not a dream.” His tail curls as he hands me a glass of water. “I tried to make it memorable.”

The casual snark doesn’t quite mask the careful way he watches me drink, noting reactions and symptoms with an intensity that rivals my own analytical nature. Fascinating.

“I’m Dr. Andrews.” Then, because it feels too formal, given he literally carried me to safety, “Blair. But I guess you already knew that.”

“Dante.” His lips quirk. “Not many biochemists get the opportunity to study us.”