Page 20 of Devilishly Hers (Monster Mountain Romance #1)

Chapter Seventeen

B lair

The mountain’s infirmary feels impossibly cold without Dante’s heat nearby. For three days, he’s kept his distance—physically present only for the briefest treatments, his eyes avoiding mine, his tail conspicuously coiled tight against his leg to prevent any accidental contact.

My microscope blurs as exhaustion claims another hour of focus.

Sleep has become a luxury I can’t afford, not when toxic lines continue their slow march across Dante’s wing despite my best efforts.

At least it hasn’t progressed to his central nervous system.

My hands tremble as I fumble with another slide.

My body aches with emptiness I can’t explain through science. Each day spent apart from him brings increasing physical discomfort—headaches that won’t relent, trembling hands, fluctuating body temperature. The symptoms match what the ancient texts described: a mate bond in distress.

“You look terrible.” Ma rina’s gentle voice startles me as she glides into the infirmary, her sparkling scales rippling with concern.

“I can’t stop working, Marina. Not when the antivenom still isn’t breaking down the toxin’s core structure fast enough.”

“And killing yourself through exhaustion will help?” Her scales shimmer as she settles beside me. “Your body temperature is concerning. Almost as concerning as his.”

The mention of Dante’s condition makes my chest tighten painfully. “I need to check his latest readings.”

“I just came from his room. He’s refusing treatment.” The gentle delivery doesn’t soften the impact of her words. “Said something about preferring the poison to… other alternatives.”

My heart splinters at the implication. “He can’t just—that’s completely irrational! The toxin will spread to his central nervous system, and he’ll die if we don’t continue treatment.”

“Perhaps you should tell him that.” Her eyes hold compassion without judgment. “Rather than avoiding each other while you both suffer.”

“I’m not avoiding him. I’m working.” The defense sounds false even to my own ears. “And he made his feelings quite clear. He wants nothing to do with a hunter’s daughter.”

“Yes, he’s told us all. Many times.” Marina’s scales shift in what might be the Water Sprite equivalent of an eye roll. “Though he seems to mention it less convincingly each time.”

The monitoring bracelet on my wrist—synchronized to Dante’s—interrupts with a series of urgent alerts. Heart rate erratic, oxygen levels dropping, temperature plummeting toward dangerous levels.

“I’ll alert Volt,” Marina says, already gliding toward the door. “He may need to carry—”

“No time.” I grab my medical bag and am already moving, the mate bond pulling me toward Dante with unerring accuracy despite days of forced separation.

His chamber door stands partly open, unusual for someone so private.

The sight that greets me steals my breath—Dante sitting on the floor, wings awkwardly spread, skin fluctuating between ashen gray and deepest obsidian.

The toxic lines have progressed further than my worst projections, spreading toward his spine like deadly lacework.

“You stubborn, ridiculous—” The words catch in my throat as I drop to my knees beside him, hands already working to prepare an injection. “This is what happens when you refuse proper treatment protocols.”

“Excellent bedside manner, Doc.” His voice emerges as a rasp, but the familiar sarcasm sends relief coursing through me despite everything. “Very comforting.”

“Comfort isn’t my priority right now.” Sliding the needle into his arm with practiced precision. “Keeping you alive is.”

As the antivenom enters his system, his body shudders violently.

Without conscious decision, I find myself supporting his weight against me, one arm around his shoulders to steady him through the treatment.

The contact—our first real connection in days—sends warmth cascading through my system, easing the headache that’s been my constant companion since our separation.

I feel more than see his recognition of what’s happening—the slight stiffening before reluctant surrender to biological reality. The mate bond flows between us, amplifying the treatment more than I ever understood from mere documentation.

His proximity sends heat coursing through me that has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with the memory of his mouth on mine, his hands exploring my body with reverent precision.

His dire condition does nothing to diminish the electric current that arcs between us every time our skin makes contact.

“The resonance patterns are accelerating cellular response,” I murmur, the clinical words helping me maintain distance from the intimacy of holding him. “If we’d maintained proximity during previous treatments, the toxin’s spread would have been contained days ago.”

“Not worth… the cost,” he manages through clenched teeth, though his body betrays him by leaning further into my support.

“That’s not rational. It’s emotional.” I can’t keep the frustration from my voice.

His laugh emerges, pained but genuine. “Ever the scientist, even when holding a dying devil.”

“You’re not dying.” The words emerge fierce with conviction I hadn’t realized I still possessed. “Not while I have anything to say about it.”

Through our connection, I feel his vital signs stabilizing—temperature rising toward normal range, heart rate settling into a stronger rhythm, breathing easing as the antive nom counters the latest toxin surge.

The improvement brings relief so profound that my own hands become steady for the first time in days.

“You haven’t been sleeping.” His observation lacks judgment, his eyes tracing the shadows beneath mine. “Working yourself to collapse.”

“Someone had to find a solution while you were having your crisis of trust.” The words come out sharp, though I regret it. “The toxin doesn’t pause for emotional processing.”

His skin darkens at my tone, but he doesn’t pull away. “The mate bond affects you, too. You’re experiencing separation symptoms.”

“A biological reality.” Clinical terms feel safer than emotional vulnerability. “The ancient texts describe it accurately—physical weakness when separated, shared physiological responses, progressive strengthening over time.”

“Is that what this is to you? Just biology?” He studies my face, his question carrying genuine curiosity beneath lingering hurt.

My hands pause in their work, honesty surfacing before I can clothe it in clinical terminology. “No. It’s far more than that. Which is why your rejection has been… difficult to process.”

His skin shifts through shades I’ve documented extensively—crimson to obsidian to something between that indicates emotional conflict. “I’m still angry.”

“You have every right to be.” No defense comes to mind that wouldn’t sound hollow. “I kept essential information from you, information directly relevant to your safety and well-being.”

“Yes.” His agreement ca rries no satisfaction. “You did.”

“But I’ve never lied about my feelings.” The words emerge barely above a whisper. “Nor have I lied about what’s grown between us. About who I am now versus who I was raised to be.”

The monitoring bracelet beeps again, this time with improved readings. The antivenom, amplified by our proximity, fights the toxin more effectively than any previous treatment. Scientific evidence of what I’ve been trying to explain for days.

“You need to come to the infirmary.” I find my professional voice again, safer than vulnerable hope. “The treatment requires monitoring and follow-up protocols that aren’t feasible in your current location.”

For a moment, I think he’ll refuse—retreat behind anger and wounded pride despite medical necessity. Instead, he nods once, the movement slight but significant.

“Help me up.” The request costs him, vulnerability exposed despite his best efforts at stoic distance.

Supporting his weight as he rises unsteadily, I feel the mate bond strengthening with each moment of contact.

My headache recedes completely, hands no longer trembling as we navigate toward the door.

His wing brushes my arm—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not—and warmth cascades through my system at the brief contact.

In the infirmary, I help him settle onto the examination table, the familiar routine providing structure against the emotional chaos threatening my composure.

“Without aggressive inter vention, permanent nervous system damage becomes statistically probable within forty-eight hours.”

“And this aggressive intervention requires proximity maintenance.” Not a question, but a recognition of unavoidable reality.

“The data is conclusive.” Gesturing toward the monitoring displays, where our vital signs have synchronized to nearly identical rhythms. “Treatment efficacy increases by approximately 43.7% when mate bond proximity is maintained.”

“I’ve noticed.” His tail uncurls slightly from its defensive position, the tip resting near my wrist without quite making contact. “My temperature has stabilized for the first time in days.”

“Mine too.” The truth feels easier now. “The separation was affecting us both physiologically.”

His gaze meets mine, those intense red eyes carrying emotions too complex for simple classification. “I believe you. About the bond. About what it does to us physically.”

It’s a small concession, smaller than I’d hoped for, but more than I deserve. The mate bond pulses between us, stronger in physical proximity despite emotional distance still stretching like a chasm.

“I understand now that the real monsters aren’t defined by species classification or biological markers.” My voice steadies with conviction born from years of painful growth. “That what my father taught me about cryptids was fundamentally flawed. That beings like you—”

I stop, emotion threatening to overwhelm the scientific composure I’ve relied on for so long.

“Beings like me?” He prompts, something shifting in his expression.

“Beings like you deserve to be seen as individuals, not threats. As people, not specimens.” Finding the courage to meet his gaze directly. “As someone whose trust I valued more than I realized until I lost it.”

His skin darkens at my words, but he doesn’t look away. “You realize how difficult this is. Trusting the daughter of someone who creates weapons specifically designed to destroy my kind.”

“Yes. I understand completely why my background represents significant security concerns for the sanctuary.”

“That’s not—” He stops, frustration evident in the lashing of his tail. “This isn’t about sanctuary security protocols. This is about us. About what was growing between us before I knew the truth.”

The simple directness of his statement steals my breath.

“I thought everything was ruined.” The admission emerges barely above a whisper. “When you found out. When you looked at me and saw only the hunter’s daughter.”

“I’m still trying to reconcile who you were with who you are.” His honesty matches mine, painful but necessary. “The woman who’s trying to heal my wing with the child raised to hunt my kind.”

“They’re both me.” No point denying complex reality. “I can’t erase my upbringing or what I learned from my father. But I can choose how to use that knowledge. I have chosen, Dante. Every day since I realized the truth about cryptids.”

The monitoring bracelet bee ps again, reminding us both of medical reality beyond emotional complexity. The antivenom continues its work, toxic lines receding slightly from their dangerous path toward his spine.

“We should continue treatment.” I retreat back to clinical safety. “The preliminary results show significant improvement, but more frequent antivenom administration will be necessary.”

“Always the scientist.” But there’s no bite in his observation, only weary acceptance of our intertwined fates. “Even when discussing matters of the heart.”

“It’s how I navigate uncertainty.” It’s all I know how to do. “Data provides framework when emotions prove… challenging to process.”

As I prepare the next treatment phase, his tail shifts slightly, hesitantly brushing against my wrist. The contact—barely there yet somehow monumental—sends warmth cascading through my system. Not forgiveness, not yet, but acknowledgment that fighting this connection hurts us both.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you.” His voice carries no cruelty, only honest assessment. “Trust requires time to rebuild.”

“I know.” I don’t expect forgiveness to come easily. “I’m not asking for trust. Just an opportunity to demonstrate who I am now versus who I was raised to be.”

His gaze meets mine, the piercing stare carries challenge and something else I dare not name. “Then prove it, Dr. Andrews. Not with words or scientific explanations or emotional declarations. With actions.”

“I will.” My voice carries quiet determination. “For as long as it takes.”

As I continue the treatment , his wing settles under my hands—not pulling away, not leaning in. The mate bond hums between us, undeniable despite our fractured trust.

Some bonds strengthen through fire instead of breaking.

And sometimes, healing comes from knowing where you belong—even when broken trust makes that place seem impossible to reach.