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“I thought everything was ruined.” The admission emerges barely above a whisper. “When you found out. When you looked at me and saw only the hunter’s daughter.”

“I’m still trying to reconcile who you were with who you are.” His honesty matches mine, painful but necessary. “The woman who’s trying to heal my wing with the child raised to hunt my kind.”

“They’re both me.” No point denying complex reality. “I can’t erase my upbringing or what I learned from my father. But I can choose how to use that knowledge. Ihavechosen, Dante. Every day since I realized the truth about cryptids.”

The monitoring bracelet beeps again, reminding us both of medical reality beyond emotional complexity. The antivenom continues its work, toxic lines receding slightly from their dangerous path toward his spine.

“We should continue treatment.” I retreat back to clinical safety. “The preliminary results show significant improvement, but more frequent antivenom administration will be necessary.”

“Always the scientist.” But there’s no bite in his observation, only weary acceptance of our intertwined fates. “Even when discussing matters of the heart.”

“It’s how I navigate uncertainty.” It’s all I know how to do. “Data provides framework when emotions prove… challenging to process.”

As I prepare the next treatment phase, his tail shifts slightly, hesitantly brushing against my wrist. The contact—barely there yet somehow monumental—sends warmth cascading through my system. Not forgiveness, not yet, but acknowledgment that fighting this connection hurts us both.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you.” His voice carries no cruelty, only honest assessment. “Trust requires time to rebuild.”

“I know.” I don’t expect forgiveness to come easily. “I’m not asking for trust. Just an opportunity to demonstrate who I am now versus who I was raised to be.”

His gaze meets mine, the piercing stare carries challenge and something else I dare not name. “Then prove it, Dr. Andrews. Not with words or scientific explanations or emotional declarations. With actions.”

“I will.” My voice carries quiet determination. “For as long as it takes.”

As I continue the treatment, his wing settles under my hands—not pulling away, not leaning in. The mate bond hums between us, undeniable despite our fractured trust.

Some bonds strengthen through fire instead of breaking.

And sometimes, healing comes from knowing where you belong—even when broken trust makes that place seem impossible to reach.

Chapter Eighteen

Dante

The infirmary light seeps through my closed eyelids, crystal formations casting shifting patterns against the darkness. For three days, I’ve endured treatment in stony silence while our bodies betrayed us—the mate bond insisting on a connection that my pride rejected.

“Your wing is showing significant improvement.” Her voice carries professional detachment as she examines the toxic lines that have finally begun to recede. “The worst of the damage is finally reversing itself.”

“So, I won’t die after all. What a relief. Nice work, Doc.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, surprise evident at hearing more than monosyllabic responses for the first time in days. “Being near each other seems to be helping the healing process, whether we like it or not.”

“Biology has a funny way of ignoring our feelings on the matter.” My tail shifts restlessly against the examination table, betraying emotions my controlled expression attempts to hide.

“You should rest after this treatment.” Her focus remains on my wing, avoiding direct eye contact as she works the healing salve into my sensitive membrane. “Your body needs to recover.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who looks like she hasn’t slept since Tuesday. Cliff says you’ve been living on coffee and stubbornness.”

Her hands pause momentarily before resuming their careful ministrations. “I’ve been busy. Sleep can wait until you’re out of danger.”

“At this rate, I’ll recover just in time to attend your collapse from exhaustion.” My skin darkens with frustration at her stubborn self-neglect. “The irony would be delicious if it weren’t so irritating.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your ‘fine’ and my ‘fine’ must come from different dictionaries. How about a deal?”

Her eyebrow rises with curiosity. “What kind of deal?”

“I’ll be the perfect patient—no complaints, no sarcasm, full cooperation. In exchange, you act like a human being with basic needs—actual meals, at least six hours of sleep, and occasionally seeing daylight outside this lab.”