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“And you followed his path.”

“I was four when she died. He raised me to see cryptids as threats, but…” I pause, the realization crystallizing as I speak it. “I think I was always trying to find my way back to her approach. To understand rather than fear things that were unfamiliar. I just took a very roundabout way to get there.”

His tail uncurls slightly, no longer held defensively tight against his body. “That explains why you changed so completely at Apex. You weren’t just rejecting your father’s beliefs—you were rediscovering hers.”

The insight strikes with unexpected clarity. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Sometimes we need distance to see patterns clearly,” he says, his wing brushing me in a gesture of understanding that sends warmth through the bond between us.

“My father still believes he’s honoring her memory through his work,” I continue. “That’s why he can’t accept my choices. To him, I’m betraying not just him, but her.”

“Yet you’re actually completing her research,” Dante observes. “Living among cryptids, documenting our societies, building connections rather than barriers.”

The simple truth of his statement catches in my throat. “Yes.”

We sit in silence as the sun begins its slow descent. The surrounding ridge bears evidence of the recent battle—scorched earth from Volt’s lightning, crystal formations still vibrating with defensive energy.

“Thank you,” Dante says finally, his skin shifting to a warmer crimson. “For trusting me with this.”

“I should have told you sooner,” I acknowledge. “About all of it.”

“You’re telling me now.” His tail moves cautiously closer to me. “That’s what matters.”

As we make our way back to the sanctuary, something shifts between us—not forgiveness, not yet, but understanding beginning to take root where only hurt had existed before. The mate bond resonates with quiet acknowledgment, stronger for having weathered the storm.

Some truths hurt to share, but heal in the telling.

Some connections strengthen through challenge rather than breaking under pressure.

And sometimes, the path forward becomes clearer only when we finally understand where we’ve been.

Chapter Twenty-One

Blair

“Is the pain less today?” I ask, carefully examining Dante’s wing as he stretches it on the examination table before me. The antivenom treatments are working—slowly but visibly—the toxic lines finally beginning to recede rather than advance across his membrane.

It’s still too slow. The venom I identified has been modified since I first worked with it in my father’s lab, but I adjusted the antivenom. With the mate bond augmenting the benefits, it should be resolved by now. There’s something I’m missing. I need more information.

His skin shifts between crimson and something lighter as I work the healing salve into the affected areas. “It’s more of a dull ache now. Your latest formulation seems to be working better than the previous ones.”

“I’ve been refining the molecular structure to target the specific binding patterns,” I explain, focused on my work while noting his improved range of motion. The wing thatonce could barely extend now stretches with only minimal discomfort.

As I prepare the next injection, I prepare to ask the question that may destroy the fragile connection that we’ve rebuilt. “Dante, can you tell me exactly how you were exposed to this toxin? Understanding the initial transmission vector might help me refine the treatment protocols even further.”

His wings pull tight against his back—a defensive posture I’ve catalogued extensively during our time together. His skin shifts through darker shades, settling into that deep obsidian that indicates emotional distress.

“Does it matter?” The deflection comes with a curl of his tail—another documented pattern when avoiding uncomfortable topics.

“It might,” I say, keeping my tone soft. “The way the toxin got into your system could change how it behaves. A puncture wound reacts differently than something you breathed in or touched.”

His expression closes further, but something in my careful scientific approach seems to reach him. After a long moment, he sighs—a surprisingly human gesture from someone so otherworldly.

“It was a dart.” The admission emerges reluctantly. “I believe it was designed to target wing membranes specifically.”

The clinical precision of his description sends a chill through me. Wing membrane targeting was one of my father’s specialties—he’d spent years studying the unique vascular structures of flying cryptids, identifying optimal injection points for maximum toxin distribution.

“This happened during a reconnaissance mission.” It’s not a question.