Page 24 of Devilishly Hers (Monster Mountain Romance #1)

Chapter Twenty-On e

B lair

“Is the pain less today?” I ask, carefully examining Dante’s wing as he stretches it on the examination table before me. The antivenom treatments are working—slowly but visibly—the toxic lines finally beginning to recede rather than advance across his membrane.

It’s still too slow. The venom I identified has been modified since I first worked with it in my father’s lab, but I adjusted the antivenom. With the mate bond augmenting the benefits, it should be resolved by now. There’s something I’m missing. I need more information.

His skin shifts between crimson and something lighter as I work the healing salve into the affected areas. “It’s more of a dull ache now. Your latest formulation seems to be working better than the previous ones.”

“I’ve been refining the molecular structure to target the specific binding patterns,” I explain, focused on my work while noting his improved range of motion. The wing that once could barely extend now stretches with only minimal discomfort.

As I prepare the next injection, I prepare to ask the question that may destroy the fragile connection that we’ve rebuilt. “Dante, can you tell me exactly how you were exposed to this toxin? Understanding the initial transmission vector might help me refine the treatment protocols even further.”

His wings pull tight against his back—a defensive posture I’ve catalogued extensively during our time together. His skin shifts through darker shades, settling into that deep obsidian that indicates emotional distress.

“Does it matter?” The deflection comes with a curl of his tail—another documented pattern when avoiding uncomfortable topics.

“It might,” I say, keeping my tone soft. “The way the toxin got into your system could change how it behaves. A puncture wound reacts differently than something you breathed in or touched.”

His expression closes further, but something in my careful scientific approach seems to reach him. After a long moment, he sighs—a surprisingly human gesture from someone so otherworldly.

“It was a dart.” The admission emerges reluctantly. “I believe it was designed to target wing membranes specifically.”

The clinical precision of his description sends a chill through me. Wing membrane targeting was one of my father’s specialties—he’d spent years studying the unique vascular structures of flying cryptids, identifying optimal injection points for maximum toxin distribution.

“This happened during a reconnaissance mission.” It’s not a question.

His claws click against the exam table, betraying emotional turmoil despite his carefully controlled expression. “Not exactly.”

“Then what?” My professional detachment slips as frustration colors my voice. “I need to understand what we’re dealing with, Dante, and you’ve been evasive about this injury since the day I arrived.”

His gaze finds mine, and something in his expression shifts.

For a long moment, we simply look at each other—scientist and Jersey Devil, both carrying secrets that have shaped us.

The weight of his unspoken truth hangs between us, and I see the exact moment he makes his decision.

Perhaps it’s the way I’ve trusted him with my own painful memories, or maybe it’s the mate bond urging honesty between us.

Whatever the catalyst, his defensive walls crumble.

“You want the truth? All of it?”

The intensity of his gaze makes my breath catch. “Yes. Please.” Although I assume that telling me is going to be torturous for him, part of me feels relieved that he’s trusting me with what I assume is his greatest secret.

His wings shift restlessly as he seems to make a decision. “It wasn’t my mission. I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near my location that night.”

“Then why were you?”

“Because I was meeting with another Jersey Devil.” The words emerge rough with emotion. “A young one, barely an adult. One of the few others of my kind I’ve ever encountered.”

My heart constricts at the pain evident in his voice. Jersey Devils are notoriously solitary and rare, even among cryptid communities.

“It was a prearranged mee ting?” I ask, setting aside my instruments to give him my full attention.

“I’d been tracking another Jersey Devil for months,” he admits, his skin darkening. “At first, it was just rumors, fleeting sightings in remote valleys. Then one night, I spotted him—young, skittish, watching me from a distance.”

“You made contact?” I lean forward, fascinated despite the tension between us.

“Eventually. Took weeks of careful approaches. Kieran—that was his name—was fearful of everything, even me.” A ghost of a smile touches Dante’s lips.

“His parents were killed by hunters when he was eight. We mature faster than any other cryptid, but usually we leave the family territory to find our own when we are fifteen. He was so young, yet he survived. He’d been alone for years, never met another of our kind.

Thought he was the only one until he caught my scent on the wind. ”

The name resonates through me. Kieran. Not just “another Jersey Devil” but an individual with a name and story, someone who mattered to Dante.

“What was he like?” I ask softly, seeing the emotion ripple across Dante’s skin.

“Curious. Intelligent. Desperate for connection but terrified of trusting anyone.” His wings shift with remembered frustration.

“I invited him to the sanctuary, hoping to convince him we could offer more than just safety—real community, a place to belong. It’s highly unusual for Jersey Devils to cohabitate, but after years on my own, I’ve come to appreciate this cave life and the safety, support and friendship I’ve found here.

But Kieran, after a lifetime of hi ding, couldn’t bring himself to follow me home. ”

I can see it clearly—Dante patiently building trust with this lonely creature, offering the sanctuary I now call home. A lifeline Kieran wasn’t ready to grasp.

“So you kept visiting him,” I suggest, seeing the pattern forming.

He nods, tail curling tightly against his leg. “I’d check on him regularly, bring supplies and information. He’d established a small camp in a hidden valley. We were building trust. Slowly.”

“What happened?” I ask gently.

“After weeks of gradually increasing my visits, I arrived at his camp to find Apex vehicles approaching from the valley floor.” His skin darkens to obsidian as he speaks. “I tried to warn him, but there were too many of them, already surrounding his hideout.”

“How did they find him?” I ask, already suspecting the answer.

“Tracking equipment. Heat signatures, pheromone detectors—all the specialized gear I’ve seen them using around our perimeter lately.

Maybe they’d been tracking me to him even though I came at different times and took different routes each time.

” His wings pull tight against his back with remembered anger.

“I assume they’d been hunting him for weeks, narrowing down his location. ”

“You tried to help him escape,” I say softly.

“I created a diversion, d rawing their fire while Kieran attempted to flee. For a moment, I thought we’d succeeded. We were airborne, almost clear of their range…”

“Then the darts,” I finish for him, the tactical approach unmistakable.

“Kieran saw the hunter aim at me—this massive weapon, clearly designed for maximum toxin delivery. He could have kept flying, could have escaped clean since they were focused on me. Instead, he folded his wings and dove.”

Dante’s voice breaks slightly as memory overwhelms him. “He hit me like a battering ram, sending me tumbling through the air just as the weapon discharged. The dart meant for my chest—meant to deliver a killing dose directly to my heart—caught him instead, full penetration through his back.”

I can see it clearly now—two Jersey Devils in chaotic flight, the younger one making a split-second decision to sacrifice everything for a connection barely begun.

“The second dart caught my wing as I tried to shield him from more fire, but by then we were both falling. He was still conscious before we hit the treetops, toxin spreading through his system faster than anything I’d ever seen.

The branches slowed our fall, but we both landed hard.

I gathered him in my arms. He was burning up with fever, but shook so hard with chills it was like seizures.

I tried to carry him, but my wing was failing, my temperature was rising, my limbs were trembling, and the hunters were closing in. ”

His claws click against the exam table as emotion threatens his control.

“In his final moments, he wasn’t afraid.

He smiled, actually smiled, and said, ‘At least I got to fly with family once.’ Then he pushed me away, begged me to go, said someone should live to tell others that connection among our kind was possible. ”

The image of Kieran’s final smile, of a young Jersey Devil finding peace in his last act of connection, makes my chest ache with grief for someone I never met but now feel I knew.

Dante’s gaze meets mine, filled with a grief so raw it steals my breath. “I didn’t want to leave him,” he whispers. “But he begged me to save myself. The last thing I saw was hunters surrounding him as I escaped into the trees.”

The pain in his voice makes my chest ache. In that moment, I don’t see the powerful, sarcastic Jersey Devil who rescued me from Apex, but someone carrying a burden of guilt so heavy it’s been poisoning him as surely as the toxin in his wing.

He reaches into a small pouch at his waist, withdrawing something I hadn’t seen before—a curved black horn, broken at the base. “This broke off when he hit the ground. I went back to the crash site when it was safe. This is all that remains of him.”

The relic of another Jersey Devil—one he failed to save—strikes me with its significance. He’s been carrying this physical reminder of his failure all this time, even as the poison from that encounter slowly ate away at his system.

“That’s why you didn’t tell anyone the truth.” The realization comes with painful clarity. “You blame yourself for his death.”

“I should have insisted h e come to the sanctuary sooner, shouldn’t have let him stay alone out there.” His voice hardens with self-recrimination. “He wasn’t ready to trust, and I respected that instead of pushing harder. My patience cost him everything.”

My fingers tremble as I replace the cap on the antivenom vial. “I’m so sorry, Dante.”

As our gazes connect, it’s as though I can feel all of the pain swirling around his heart. Maybe it’s the mate bond, or maybe it’s just my affection that allows me to have such empathy for him.

I realize the injection I drew is still lying nearby.

Suddenly my divergent brain clicks into gear. Everything around me fades as realization hits me. The fever and chills aren’t a typical reaction to the venom my father was working on.

While I worked on venom formulations, he spent countless hours with viral samples, particularly the Nipah virus in fruit bats.

I had questioned why he was so focused on accelerating viral mutation rates, but he’d been evasive, dismissing my curiosity with vague references to “expanded applications.”

He designed his weapon not just to wound, but to ensure slow, inevitable death.

No wonder I’m not getting the results I’m expecting. The microscope I have here isn’t powerful enough to see a virus. But a general antiviral combined with the antivenom should work.

The world comes back into focus as I become aware of Dante calling me. “Doc, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” I ass ure him.

“What happened? You look like you zoned out on me there.” Worry is evident in his voice and the look in his garnet eyes.

“Now that I understand what happened, the symptoms you just described indicate that a virus was used with the venom formula. That’s what I’ve been missing.

You just gave me the final piece of the puzzle.

I can reformulate your injection. Once I give it to you, the antivenom/antiviral should begin working immediately.

” My clinical words fail to mask the relieved emotion beneath.

His clawed hand reaches for mine, catching my wrist before I can retreat behind science again. “We’re fighting your father’s poison,” he says quietly. “But we’re also fighting for Kieran’s memory. For what he believed was possible.”

“Connection,” I whisper, understanding dawning. “He was searching for others like you. For belonging.”

“And died trying to protect the first one he found.” Dante carefully returns the broken horn to its pouch, but his hand lingers there. “I won’t let his sacrifice be for nothing.”

The broken horn. The hunter’s poison. The Jersey Devil and the scientist who spent her childhood learning to destroy his kind. Unlikely allies in a battle that feels increasingly personal for us both.

“Your father doesn’t know what he’s created,” Dante says finally, his skin shifting to that unique iridescent shade I’ve never seen him display with anyone else.

“The toxin?” I ask.

“No.” His eyes meet min e with unexpected intensity. “Us.”