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“Your timing is suspect.” Blair doesn’t look up from her work. “Did you plan that interruption, or do you just have supernatural timing when it comes to ruining scientific breakthroughs?”

“Just encouraging basic self-care, Doc.” Leaning against a crystal formation, I study her pale features. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I had…” Her brow furrows. “There was coffee earlier…”

“Coffee isn’t food.” But her confused expression holds such genuine bafflement that something in my chest clenches. “Come on. Cliff’s been stress-baking again, and the smells drifting from the kitchen are making my mouth water.”

“I’m in the middle of important calculations regarding crystal resonance patterns and their potential applications for—”

“Which will still be there after you eat.” When she protests, I add, “Unless you’d prefer I carry you to dinner like that first night?”

Her cheeks flush at the memory, but she sets down her pen with exaggerated care. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Shame.” The word slips out before I can catch it. When her eyes snap to mine, I add quickly, “The walk will do you good. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“No, but I play one on TV.”

Her startled laugh makes my wings flutter. It’s becoming addictive, finding ways to crack that analytical shell and draw out her humor.

“Fine.” Rising makes her sway slightly. My hand catches her elbow, skin darkening at the contact. “But I want to discuss the possibility of studying your healing rates. The delayed recovery of your wing suggests—”

“Dinner first.” Steering her toward the dining cavern. “Science later.”

She huffs but allows me to guide her, rattling off theories about cryptid metabolism that I only half follow. The important part is getting food into her before she passes out face-first into her research.

As we walk, her shoulders relax slightly under my touch, steps syncing with mine despite our physical differences.

Somewhere between rescuer and research subject, I’ve become something else in her carefully catalogued world. And judging by the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not looking, she’s noticed, too.

Chapter Four

Dante

“The subject employs sarcasm as a primary deflection mechanism,” Blair mutters under her breath, but my cryptid hearing catches every word. Her fingers fly across her tablet—those same fingers that traced my wing membrane yesterday with devastating precision. “Frequency increases 43% when discussing wing injury…”

Heat creeps up my neck as I pretend not to watch her from my position near the hearth, but her scent—clean cotton and that subtle sweetness that’s purely Blair—drifts over anyway. Crystal light catches in her hair, those silver-lavender strands falling forward as she works.

Blair’s been documenting my responses for the past hour, and that furrow between her brows—the one that appears when she’s thinking hard—is doing things to me it shouldn’t.

“Fascinating.” Chelsea’s voice practically purrs with amusement. “And what happens when he uses that sexy little drawl?”

Chelsea’s curled up in Riven’s lap—typical for a mated pair. She’s the only other human here besides Blair.

“That lazy drawl he does?” Blair doesn’t look up from her tablet, but her cheeks flush pink. “He only does it when he’s dodging questions about his wing.” Her voice drops lower. “Makes me want to—” She cuts herself off, fingers tightening on her stylus.

“It correlates strongly with evasive maneuvers—”

“I do not drawl,” I growl, which only makes Chelsea laugh harder.

“Actually…” Blair finally looks up, and those gray eyes hit me like a punch to the gut. “That statement was 27% longer than necessary.” She bites her lower lip while typing. “Subject appears unaware of his own vocal patterns.”

My jaw clenches. Amusement wars with irritation and something dangerously close to hunger.

“You’re seriously making a spreadsheet about my sarcasm?”

“Of course not.” She still won’t meet my eyes. “I’m making a spreadsheet about your deflection patterns. The sarcasm just happens to be the most frequent indicator.”