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“Overthinking is a fundamental research requirement,” I inform him primly, though my voice catches as his thumb traces my lower lip.

“Then maybe we should move on to the next phase of your research, Doc.” His face lowers toward mine. “For science, of course.”

“For science,” I agree just before his lips find mine, and all scientific observation temporarily gives way to pure, unquantifiable experience.

As his wings curve around us, creating that private world that belongs only to us, I make mental notes for future documentation—the exact temperature increase when his tail tightens around my wrist, the precise shade of his skin when my fingers trace his horns, the specific frequency of the growl that vibrates through his chest when I press closer.

Some data can only be collected through direct participation.

Some connections defy standard classification systems.

And some experiments are worth conducting again and again, regardless of what the spreadsheets say.

Chapter Thirteen

Dante

The first sign that something is wrong comes the next morning during patrol. Marina’s concerned glance at my wing lingers too long. Volt’s electricity crackles with barely suppressed worry. Even Cliff’s usually stoic Sasquatch expression shows alarm.

“Your wing.” Marina’s voice carries gentle concern. “That discoloration has spread past the membrane edge.”

Twisting to examine it shoots fresh pain through my body. The strange dark lines that had been confined to the injury site now sprawl like toxic spiderwebs across my wing. The sight makes my skin shift to obsidian.

“It’s nothing.” The lie tastes bitter. “Just needs more time to heal.”

Kieran’s warning cry echoes in my memory—hunters’ weapons firing as he tried to save me, the burning sensation when I was hit, the sickening realization that I’d escaped while he lost his life.

My stomach threatens to rebel when Volt interrupts. “This isn’t normal healing. Blair should look at it.”

The mention of her name makes my skin flash with heat. Last night’s interrupted wing treatment left us both frustrated and wanting more. But there are more urgent matters than my growing attraction to our resident scientist.

“Fine.” My tail flicks with barely contained tension. “But let’s not create unnecessary panic.”

Finding her proves easy. She’s in her lab-turned-infirmary, bent over test results with that adorable furrow between her brows. My quiet footsteps don’t startle her—she’s attuned to me, always seems to know when I’m near. The mate bond.

“Your breathing pattern is elevated.” She doesn’t look up from her work. “Your crystal bracelet indicates your temperature just spiked 2.1 degrees upon entering the room.”

“Maybe I just enjoy watching you work.” But my attempt at deflection dies when I try to shrug nonchalantly, and fresh pain blasts through my wing.

This time, she does look up, her expression shifting from scientific interest to alarm. “Your wing—the toxin spread patterns have accelerated significantly.” Moving quickly, she gestures to the examination table. “Let me see.”

Her touch is gentle but clinical as she examines the damage. The contrast between her professional demeanor and last night’s heated encounter makes my skin flush darker.

“This is…” Her voicecatches as she traces one of the spreading lines. “The molecular structure must be evolving. Adapting to your system faster than your natural healing can combat it.”

“How bad?”

Instead of answering immediately, she grabs several vials and testing equipment. The efficiency of her movements can’t quite mask the tremor in her hands.

“The original infection site shows increased necrotic tissue.” Her voice stays steady through sheer force of will. “And these new patterns are following your wing’s primary energy channels. Almost like they were designed to—” She cuts herself off, but not before I catch the flash of recognition in her eyes.

“Designed to what?” My tail curls around her wrist, seeking connection even as suspicion prickles at my neck.

“I need to run more tests.” Pulling away, she mixes solutions with precise movements. “The spread rate suggests some kind of catalytic reaction, but the trigger mechanism…”

“Blair.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Her hands flutter so wildly now, she tucks them under her arms. For a moment, the only sound is the quiet hum of crystal formations and the thundering of our hearts.