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“Someone had to find a solution while you were having your crisis of trust.” The words come out sharp, though I regret it. “The toxin doesn’t pause for emotional processing.”

His skin darkens at my tone, but he doesn’t pull away. “The mate bond affects you, too. You’re experiencing separation symptoms.”

“A biological reality.” Clinical terms feel safer than emotional vulnerability. “The ancient texts describe it accurately—physical weakness when separated, shared physiological responses, progressive strengthening over time.”

“Is that what this is to you? Just biology?” He studies my face, his question carrying genuine curiosity beneath lingering hurt.

My hands pause in their work, honesty surfacingbefore I can clothe it in clinical terminology. “No. It’s far more than that. Which is why your rejection has been… difficult to process.”

His skin shifts through shades I’ve documented extensively—crimson to obsidian to something between that indicates emotional conflict. “I’m still angry.”

“You have every right to be.” No defense comes to mind that wouldn’t sound hollow. “I kept essential information from you, information directly relevant to your safety and well-being.”

“Yes.” His agreement carries no satisfaction. “You did.”

“But I’ve never lied about my feelings.” The words emerge barely above a whisper. “Nor have I lied about what’s grown between us. About who I am now versus who I was raised to be.”

The monitoring bracelet beeps again, this time with improved readings. The antivenom, amplified by our proximity, fights the toxin more effectively than any previous treatment. Scientific evidence of what I’ve been trying to explain for days.

“You need to come to the infirmary.” I find my professional voice again, safer than vulnerable hope. “The treatment requires monitoring and follow-up protocols that aren’t feasible in your current location.”

For a moment, I think he’ll refuse—retreat behind anger and wounded pride despite medical necessity. Instead, he nods once, the movement slight but significant.

“Help me up.” The request costs him, vulnerability exposed despite his best efforts at stoic distance.

Supporting his weight as he rises unsteadily, I feel the mate bond strengthening with each moment of contact. My headache recedes completely, hands no longer trembling as we navigate toward the door. His wing brushes my arm—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not—and warmth cascades through my system at the brief contact.

In the infirmary, I help him settle onto the examination table, the familiar routine providing structure against the emotional chaos threatening my composure.

“Without aggressive intervention, permanent nervous system damage becomes statistically probable within forty-eight hours.”

“And this aggressive intervention requires proximity maintenance.” Not a question, but a recognition of unavoidable reality.

“The data is conclusive.” Gesturing toward the monitoring displays, where our vital signs have synchronized to nearly identical rhythms. “Treatment efficacy increases by approximately 43.7% when mate bond proximity is maintained.”

“I’ve noticed.” His tail uncurls slightly from its defensive position, the tip resting near my wrist without quite making contact. “My temperature has stabilized for the first time in days.”

“Mine too.” The truth feels easier now. “The separation was affecting us both physiologically.”

His gaze meets mine, those intense red eyes carrying emotions too complex for simple classification. “I believe you. About the bond. About what it does to us physically.”

It’s a small concession, smaller than I’d hoped for, but more than I deserve. The mate bond pulses between us, stronger in physical proximity despite emotional distance still stretching like a chasm.

“I understand now that the real monsters aren’t defined by species classification or biological markers.” My voice steadies with conviction born from years of painful growth. “That what my father taught me about cryptids was fundamentally flawed. That beings like you—”

I stop, emotion threatening to overwhelm the scientific composure I’ve relied on for so long.

“Beings likeme?” He prompts, something shifting in his expression.

“Beings like you deserve to be seen as individuals, not threats. As people, not specimens.” Finding the courage to meet his gaze directly. “As someone whose trust I valued more than I realized until I lost it.”

His skin darkens at my words, but he doesn’t look away. “You realize how difficult this is. Trusting the daughter of someone who creates weapons specifically designed to destroy my kind.”

“Yes. I understand completely why my background represents significant security concerns for the sanctuary.”

“That’s not—” He stops, frustration evident in the lashing of his tail. “This isn’t about sanctuary security protocols. This is about us. About what was growing between us before I knew the truth.”

The simple directness of his statement steals my breath.