Page 5 of Devilishly Hers (Monster Mountain Romance #1)

Chapter Five

D ante

“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 a rather 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 protectively against 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’ve numbered my 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.

“You’re thinking awfully loudly for someone who hasn’t said anything for thirty seconds,” I observe, trying to ignore how good her gentle touch feels against my sensitive membrane.

“Toxin propagation patterns suggest targeted design rather than environmental exposure.” Her eyes meet mine with unsettling directness. “This wasn’t a random injury, was it?”

My skin shifts to obsidian so quickly it surprises even me. “I never said it was.”

“No, y ou said ‘patrol incident’ and let everyone assume.” Her fingers pause in their work, but don’t withdraw. “The injury pattern indicates a weaponized delivery system with specific cryptid targeting parameters.”

“And you know this how?” The question emerges sharper than intended, defensive in ways that only confirm her suspicions.

“I’m a biochemist with extensive study in molecular biology.” Her answer comes too quickly, too practiced. “Tissue degradation patterns create recognizable signatures.”

My claws extend against the table, betraying emotions my face tries to hide. “Fascinating expertise for someone who worked at a pharmaceutical research company.”

Her fingers resume their careful application of the salve, but something shifts in her expression—a flicker of something that might be guilt before professional composure returns.

“The wing needs daily treatment if you want to maintain flight capability. And don’t bother with deflection technique number twenty-six—changing the subject when uncomfortable truths arise. ”

“You really do have a spreadsheet for everything, don’t you?” I keep my tone light despite the growing tension between us. “Very thorough.”

“Thoroughness improves outcomes.” She steps back, capping the salve jar with precise movements. “Something to consider when deciding how much truth to share about that wing injury.”

Our gazes meet across the space between us—scientist and Jersey Devil locked in an unspoken challenge. Both keeping secrets. Both recognizing the other’s careful evasions.

“Tomorrow, same time?” I ask, folding my wing with careful movements that betray none of the pain each motion causes.

“Unless you’d prefer your wing to become permanently unusable,” she responds, returning to her workstation with a scientific detachment that doesn’t quite mask the concern beneath.

“Such bedside manner, Doc.” My tail uncurls from the table leg as I stand. “You should consider something warmer. Might improve patient compliance.”

“Compliance metrics correlate more strongly with treatment efficacy than provider demeanor.” But there’s the faintest curve to her lips as she says it. “Though I’ll take your feedback under consideration.”

As I leave her lab, I can feel her gaze following me—analytical, concerned, and increasingly perceptive in ways that both intrigue and unsettle me. She’s cataloging my secrets alongside my deflection techniques, systematically dismantling the barriers I’ve spent decades constructing.

The most troubling part isn’t her scientific persistence or her growing suspicions about my injury. It’s how increasingly comfortable I feel under her scrutiny, as though being truly seen—even by someone who seems to know more than she should—might be worth the risk after all.