Page 2 of Devilishly Hers (Monster Mountain Romance #1)

Chapter Two

B lai r

Consciousness returns slowly, accompanied by the steady beep of medical equipment.

Even before opening my eyes, my analytical mind begins cataloging what I can perceive.

The steady rhythm of a heart monitor suggests my pulse is elevated.

My breathing feels measured but shallow.

Pain radiates through my body—not overwhelming, but enough to register on my internal scale.

I recall a deep voice, strong arms, and a wild, dangerous scent. Those details seem too vivid for a sedative-induced hallucination.

“Welcome back to the land of the living. Though technically you didn’t miss much—it’s only been about six hours.

” That voice. The same one from my fragmented memories, now tinged with what my data-driven mind categorizes as Type B-3 sarcasm—deflective humor with 72.

8% probability of masking genuine concern.

I’ve never been good at detecting sarcasm, but I’ve developed a classification system through years of observation.

Forcing my eyes open, I bli nk until the world comes into focus. I’m in what appears to be an infirmary, though unlike any I’ve seen. Crystal formations stud the rock walls, casting a soft ambient glow that’s easier on my sensitive eyes than fluorescent lights.

The walls look like stone, the smooth surfaces polished to a subtle sheen. Medical equipment—a mix of modern technology and what appears to be crystal-powered devices—lines one wall, while shelves of carefully labeled herbs and compounds occupy another.

The examination table beneath me is surprisingly comfortable, padded with what feels like handcrafted cushions.

The air carries a faint herbal scent, clean but not antiseptic, with notes of lavender and something earthier I can’t identify.

Several smaller crystal clusters pulse with gentle rhythms that somehow feel soothing to my frayed nervous system.

Through the fog of medication, tactical details surface unbidden—defensible position against the wall, natural concealment. The kind of location Dad would have approved of, once upon a time. I push the thought away, adding another tally to my mental count of unwanted memories.

Voices echo from somewhere nearby—muffled conversations about security protocols and surveillance.

From what I can hear, they seem to be handling multiple situations simultaneously.

The information organizes itself neatly in my mind: different teams with separate objectives, strategic resource allocation. Logical.

And there, lounging with deceptive ease in an overstuffed armchair beside my bed, sits my rescuer. Initial observation notes form automatically in my mind: Subject: Male Jers ey Devil (classification Cryptid-D4 according to taxonomy).

Gray, ridged horns that hug his skull. Generally humanoid in appearance.

Skin that shifts between deep crimson and something darker.

Wings, currently folded, but impressive in span based on earlier recollection.

Right wing secured in a supportive brace.

Black hair that is just short of his shoulders.

Hooves, arrow-tipped tail, clawed fingers that are retracted like a cat’s, human-like face, pointed ears, lush, full lips and intense garnet red eyes.

His fangs are visible when he speaks—yet his smile holds no threat.

He’s wearing a black vest and pants.

“So, the rescue wasn’t a dream.” Rather than showing my relief, my voice sounds rough—too many days screaming in pain, I guess. Scientific detachment fails me as my silver hair falls forward. The lavender streaks are more pronounced in the crystal light.

I absently wonder why I let my cousin test her cosmetology skills on me with such an odd color combination. Then I realize my cognitive functions must be impaired if I’m focused on something so irrelevant.

“No. Not a dream.” His tail curls as he hands me a glass of water. “I tried to make it memorable.”

The casual snark doesn’t quite mask the careful way he watches me drink, noting reactions and symptoms with an intensity that rivals my own analytical nature. Fascinating.

“I’m Dr. Andrews.” Then, because it feels too formal, given he literally carried me to safety, “Blair. But I guess you already knew that.”

“Dante.” His lips quirk . “Not many biochemists get the opportunity to study us.”

The reference to my work with Apex makes me flinch.

His skin alters in response—adding another data point to my growing collection of observations about his chromatic responses.

Their color-changing properties fascinate the scientist in me, even as memories of what Apex planned to do with such abilities turn my stomach.

“How much did they…” The question sticks in my throat as I shudder at the idea that I may have told them things that would help them in their pursuit of capturing and torturing cryptids like Dante.

“Get from you?” His voice gentles and his eyes soften.

“Not enough to matter. Your warning helped us prepare. I’ve been poring over the data we retrieved from the thumb drive you managed to get to us a few days ago.

From what it looks like, the data shows you didn’t say much even though they kept increasing your medications and tor—” He cuts himself off, and his red gaze shies from mine.

Interesting how a male who looks so devilish is squeamish about saying the word “torture.”

He deflects when things get personal. Classic avoidance. I’ll have to start a proper spreadsheet the moment I get access to a computer.

“I was just trying to right some wrongs.” My voice catches as fragments of memory surface. My hands reflexively clench and unclench, a habit formed during years of training I’d rather forget.

“When I found those military contracts, uncovered what they really planned to do with your abilities…”

My stomach rebels, though i t’s empty. His fingers twitch as if to reach out, then they pause. The restraint in the gesture catches my attention. He respects my space while staying close enough to help if needed.

“We don’t have to talk about that now… or ever. The data you provided will save countless lives.” His voice carries that mix of genuine concern and carefully measured distance that makes something flutter in my chest. Completely inappropriate response, I note, requiring further analysis.

I close my eyes and allow myself to breathe deeply, letting the gravelly sound of his voice and his unique scent calm my racing thoughts. Then I mentally scold myself for such an emotional reaction. Data. Focus on data.

“How’s your head?” The question comes with careful neutrality. “They had you pretty heavily sedated.”

I run a quick internal diagnostic. “Residual grogginess, mild disorientation. Nothing concerning given the probable combination of benzodiazepines and—” Catching his raised eyebrow, I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”

“You know, most people don’t analyze their symptoms quite so…” His lips twitch, and he finishes, “Thoroughly.”

“Most people aren’t biochemists.” My automatic defense makes him chuckle, the sound unexpectedly warm.

“Point taken, Doc.” The nickname should annoy me. I would never allow it in my lab. Instead, my chest warms at the hint of affection in his tone. I’ve never had a nickname before. Later, I’ll examine why that pleases me. Dangerous territor y. Focus on facts, Blair, data, things I can quantify.

“Where exactly am I?” Crystal clusters pulse with soft light, their resonance patterns suggesting some form of energy conductivity that demands investigation.

“Somewhere safe.” His tail curls in what I’m beginning to recognize as amusement. “Cryptid mountain. I have no idea how we’ve managed to evade all of Apex’s efforts to locate us, but as far as I know, our location is still a mystery to them.”

My thoughts fly with a thousand questions as I realize I’m now technically a fugitive. “Where will I go? How will I make a living? I only have the clothes on my back. I—”

He gently places his warm hand, claws carefully retracted, on my arm just long enough to interrupt my spiral of desperate worries.

“You deserve to rest and recover. Anything else can wait until you’re stronger.” His reassurance carries steel beneath the drawl.

“I’m perfectly capable of—” Trying to sit up proves him right as the room spins lazily.

Strong, warm hands ease me back against the pillows. “You were saying?”

“This is temporary.” But exhaustion drags at my limbs even as my mind races with questions. “The sedatives will metabolize within 24-48 hours, depending on…”

“Sleep, Doc.” His voice rumbles with something that might be fondness. “The biochemistry lesson can wait.”

I want to argue, to demand answers about what happens next.

But my treacherous body is already responding to his suggestion, eyelids growing heavy.

The last thing I register is the gentle brush of his wing on my cheek, barely there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

Like his careful distance, the gesture reveals more than he probably intends.

Questions can wait. For now, there’s safety in this strange place with its crystal lights and a Jersey Devil who tries so hard to mask kindness with sarcasm.