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“I should…” She stands abruptly, tablet in hand. “That is… I need to review these findings. For science.”

Watching her retreat toward her chamber, my tail flicks with equal parts amusement and frustration.

“For someone documenting deflection patterns, she’s remarkably good at avoiding her own feelings,” Chelsea observes with a knowing smile.

“Perhaps you’ve found your perfect match,” Riven adds, his wings pulsing gently. “Someone equally adept at denying the obvious.”

“Don’t you two have somewhere else to be?” But my coloring betrays my embarrassment as I catch one last glimpse of Blair’s hair disappearing around the corner.

Some spreadsheets can’t capture every variable. Some feelings refuse to be classified. And some subjects are better studied up close.

Chapter Five

Dante

“For someone obsessed with documenting my every twitch, you’re awfully careless with your equipment.”

I lean against the doorframe of Blair’s lab, dangling her favorite pen between my claws. Her makeshift infirmary has become increasingly organized over the past two weeks—medical supplies arranged with military precision, crystals positioned for optimal lighting, and her tablets neatly stacked beside her workstation. A space that perfectly reflects her methodical nature.

She glances up from her microscope, those silver-lavender strands falling across her face before she tucks them behind her ear. “I wondered where that went. Though ‘went’ implies accidental movement rather than deliberate acquisition.”

“Acquisition? That’s arather clinical term for borrowing,” I counter, sauntering into her space and placing the pen just beyond her immediate reach. “Besides, you have three others.”

“Four, actually.” She doesn’t move to retrieve it, just watches me with that analytical gaze that somehow manages to be both irritating and captivating. “Though this particular model has an ease of writing perfect for detailed notations.”

“Detailed notations about me, no doubt.” My tail flicks with amusement as I settle onto the examination table without being asked. “Another spreadsheet documenting my many fascinating qualities?”

“Your deflection techniques, primarily.” She finally reaches for the pen, her fingers brushing mine longer than strictly necessary. “Though your tendency to evade direct questions is becoming a statistically significant variable worth tracking.”

“Evade? I prefer ‘strategically redirect’.” I spread my wings slightly, intentionally forcing her to step back. “Much like how you’re collecting data on my every mood swing.”

Her eyes narrow as she studies my wings, all scientific observation rather than an appreciation of their impressive span. “Speaking of which, that wing needs attention. The discoloration has spread.”

“It’s fine.” My automatic response makes my skin darken instantly. Damn these chromatic tells.

“‘Fine’ is a subjective assessment with no quantifiable parameters.” She moves closer, tablet already in hand. “Objective observation indicates tissue deterioration inconsistent with normal healing patterns.”

I fold my wing protectivelyagainst my back, ignoring the twinge of pain the movement causes. “And here I thought we were having a pleasant conversation about your missing pen.”

“Deflection technique number forty-three: changing the subject when physically uncomfortable.” Her fingers move swiftly across her tablet. “Frequency of usage increasing by approximately twenty-seven percent over the past week.”

“You’venumberedmy deflection techniques?” I can’t decide whether to be impressed or disturbed by her thoroughness. “That seems excessive even for your scientific standards, Doc.”

“Categorization improves analytical efficiency.” She sets down her tablet and approaches with that determined look I’ve come to recognize—and dread. “Now, wing out. Full extension.”

“How about a ‘please’? Or perhaps ‘would you mind’?” But I’m already complying despite my sarcasm, extending the injured appendage with a wince I fail to hide.

Her touch is surprisingly gentle, despite her clinical tone. “The necrotic tissue is expanding along the primary membrane structures. And don’t bother with deflection technique number seventeen—making jokes when in pain. It’s statistically the least effective of your repertoire.”

“I’m wounded that you think so little of my humor.” She examines the discoloration spreading across my wing. “Though apparently I’m wounded in more ways than one.”

“Humor as self-protection,” she murmurs, fingers tracing the toxic lines with disconcerting precision. “Consistent with established psychological coping mechanisms.”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me now?” My tail curls defensively around the examination table leg. “I thought biochemistry was your specialty, not psychology.”

“Pattern recognition transcends disciplinary boundaries.” She reaches for a jar of healing salve, the scent of aromatic herbs filling the space between us. “This formulation should slow the spread, though it’s treating symptoms rather than addressing the underlying cause.”

As she works the salve into my wing membrane, I notice the slight furrow between her brows—the one that appears whenever she’s puzzling through a particularly challenging problem. It’s becoming alarmingly familiar, that look of scientific determination mixed with something that might almost be concern.