Page 6

Riven’s wings flutter—the bastard’s enjoying this. “So, what are your findings so far?”

“Well…” She straightens—and damn if watching her slip into professor mode isn’t the hottest thing I’ve seen all week. “Subject D demonstrates a clear correlation between perceived vulnerability and increased deflective humor.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “For instance—”

She turns her tablet towardme, and the graph on the screen makes my skin flush dark crimson. “When I asked about your wing this morning, you made three sarcastic comments in—what was it—forty-seven seconds. Classic avoidance behavior.”

“Subject D?” Heat pools low in my belly as her gaze drops to my mouth. “Seriously?”

“Would you prefer a different designation?” Those gray eyes meet mine, all innocent curiosity, but there’s something else lurking underneath that makes my tail twitch. “I considered ‘Subject JD’ but that seemed a bit species-specific…”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to offend my delicate Jersey Devil sensibilities,” I say, letting that drawl she’s so fascinated by creep into my voice.

Her fingers fly across the screen. Documenting me in real time. The thought should irritate me. Instead, it’s doing things to my body it shouldn’t.

“What exactly did you just record?”

“Your theological reference.” She doesn’t look up, but I catch the tiny smile tugging at her lips. “That’s the fourth one this hour.”

Chelsea snorts.

I ignore them, but my gaze keeps drifting to the way crystal light catches in Blair’s silver-lavender hair, making it shimmer like moonwater.

“You know you might be overthinking this, right Doc?”

“I need to write everything down. My brain works differently. The need to record, analyze, and understand isn’t just habit—it’s how I function.” She adds another column—and damn, even her organizational skills are turning me on. “For example, your current skin color suggests mild agitation mixed with… something else I haven’t been able to categorize yet.”

The “something else” is an attraction so fierce it makes my injured wing ache with the need to wrap around her, pull her close, feel her heartbeat against my chest. But she doesn’t need to know that. Yet.

Instead, I move closer, peering from behind her at her tablet. My chest brushes her back as I reach around her, carefully extending my claws to grasp the crystal without scratching it.

The contact—the first deliberate touch in days—sends fire racing through my veins. The mate bond flares with recognition, with relief so profound it momentarily steals my breath. My skin shifts involuntarily to that iridescent shade I can never seem to control around her.

“You’ve created an entire taxonomy of my jokes?” I can’t suppress the incredulous tone of my voice.

“Preliminary classifications only.” She shifts to show me the screen. Her scent—all clean cotton and subtle sweetness—makes my skin darken. “I’m still gathering baseline data about your default sarcasm levels versus situational increases.”

“Fascinating,” I murmur, attempting to sound disinterested while moving closer. “And these ‘situational increases’?”

“Well…” She scrolls through her notes, apparently oblivious to how close I’m standing. “You demonstrate a 37% rise in deflective humor when discussing your injury, a 42% increase during medical examinations, and a striking 58% spike when asked about your feelings.”

“My feelings?” The word comes out rough as her hair brushes the back of my hand, which is innocently resting far too close to her on the back of the loveseat.

“Yes, though the sample size is still limited.” She frowns at her data. “You’re remarkably adept at changing the subject whenever emotional topics arise. It’s quite frustrating from a research perspective.”

“Terribly sorry to complicate your scientific method.” But my tail curls with unwanted warmth at her focused attention, even if it’s purely analytical.

“Case in point.” Her fingers fly across the screen. “Classic deflection pattern, accompanied by that particular drawl you use when—”

“When what?” I’m definitely standing too close now, my skin heating as she tilts her head to meet my gaze.

“When you’re…” For the first time, she seems to register our proximity. A flush creeps up her neck as she swallows. “That is… the data suggests…”

“Everything okay there, Doc?” My voice drops lower as her pulse quickens. “You seem a bit… distracted from your research.”

“I… that is…” Her fingers tighten on the tablet. “I should probably… document these responses…”

“By all means.” Leaning closer, I enjoy how her breath catches. “Don’t let me interfere with your scientific observations.”

A discrete cough from Chelsea breaks the moment. Blair practically jumps off the cushion, her cheeks pink as she buries herself in her data. My skin darkens at the loss of contact I definitely wasn’t craving.