Page 29

Blair

The mountain’s infirmary feels impossibly cold without Dante’s heat nearby. For three days, he’s kept his distance—physically present only for the briefest treatments, his eyes avoiding mine, his tail conspicuously coiled tight against his leg to prevent any accidental contact.

My microscope blurs as exhaustion claims another hour of focus. Sleep has become a luxury I can’t afford, not when toxic lines continue their slow march across Dante’s wing despite my best efforts. At least it hasn’t progressed to his central nervous system. My hands tremble as I fumble with another slide.

My body aches with emptiness I can’t explain through science. Each day spent apart from him brings increasing physical discomfort—headaches that won’t relent, trembling hands, fluctuating body temperature. The symptoms match what the ancient texts described: a mate bond in distress.

“You look terrible.” Marina’s gentle voice startles me as she glides into the infirmary, her sparkling scales rippling with concern.

“I can’t stop working, Marina. Not when the antivenom still isn’t breaking down the toxin’s core structure fast enough.”

“And killing yourself through exhaustion will help?” Her scales shimmer as she settles beside me. “Your body temperature is concerning. Almost as concerning as his.”

The mention of Dante’s condition makes my chest tighten painfully. “I need to check his latest readings.”

“I just came from his room. He’s refusing treatment.” The gentle delivery doesn’t soften the impact of her words. “Said something about preferring the poison to… other alternatives.”

My heart splinters at the implication. “He can’t just—that’s completely irrational! The toxin will spread to his central nervous system, and he’ll die if we don’t continue treatment.”

“Perhaps you should tell him that.” Her eyes hold compassion without judgment. “Rather than avoiding each other while you both suffer.”

“I’m not avoiding him. I’m working.” The defense sounds false even to my own ears. “And he made his feelings quite clear. He wants nothing to do with a hunter’s daughter.”

“Yes, he’s told us all. Many times.” Marina’s scales shift in what might be the Water Sprite equivalent of an eye roll. “Though he seems to mention it less convincingly each time.”

The monitoring bracelet onmy wrist—synchronized to Dante’s—interrupts with a series of urgent alerts. Heart rate erratic, oxygen levels dropping, temperature plummeting toward dangerous levels.

“I’ll alert Volt,” Marina says, already gliding toward the door. “He may need to carry—”

“No time.” I grab my medical bag and am already moving, the mate bond pulling me toward Dante with unerring accuracy despite days of forced separation.

His chamber door stands partly open, unusual for someone so private. The sight that greets me steals my breath—Dante sitting on the floor, wings awkwardly spread, skin fluctuating between ashen gray and deepest obsidian. The toxic lines have progressed further than my worst projections, spreading toward his spine like deadly lacework.

“You stubborn, ridiculous—” The words catch in my throat as I drop to my knees beside him, hands already working to prepare an injection. “This is what happens when you refuse proper treatment protocols.”

“Excellent bedside manner, Doc.” His voice emerges as a rasp, but the familiar sarcasm sends relief coursing through me despite everything. “Very comforting.”

“Comfort isn’t my priority right now.” Sliding the needle into his arm with practiced precision. “Keeping you alive is.”

As the antivenom enters his system, his body shudders violently. Without conscious decision, I find myself supporting his weight against me, one arm around his shoulders to steady him through the treatment. The contact—our first real connection in days—sends warmth cascading through my system, easing theheadache that’s been my constant companion since our separation.

I feel more than see his recognition of what’s happening—the slight stiffening before reluctant surrender to biological reality. The mate bond flows between us, amplifying the treatment more than I ever understood from mere documentation.

His proximity sends heat coursing through me that has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with the memory of his mouth on mine, his hands exploring my body with reverent precision. His dire condition does nothing to diminish the electric current that arcs between us every time our skin makes contact.

“The resonance patterns are accelerating cellular response,” I murmur, the clinical words helping me maintain distance from the intimacy of holding him. “If we’d maintained proximity during previous treatments, the toxin’s spread would have been contained days ago.”

“Not worth… the cost,” he manages through clenched teeth, though his body betrays him by leaning further into my support.

“That’s not rational. It’s emotional.” I can’t keep the frustration from my voice.

His laugh emerges, pained but genuine. “Ever the scientist, even when holding a dying devil.”

“You’re not dying.” The words emerge fierce with conviction I hadn’t realized I still possessed. “Not while I have anything to say about it.”

Through our connection, I feel his vital signs stabilizing—temperature rising toward normal range, heart rate settling into a stronger rhythm, breathing easing as the antivenom counters the latest toxin surge. The improvement brings relief so profound that my own hands become steady for the first time in days.

“You haven’t been sleeping.” His observation lacks judgment, his eyes tracing the shadows beneath mine. “Working yourself to collapse.”