Page 1 of Where Lightning Strikes Twice (Fated Mates, Stubborn Hearts #2)

ELENA

Just how I prefer it.

I tap notes into my tablet, cataloging anomalies in the shifter blood samples collected from the newly emerged wild clans.

The silence helps me think, allowing me to notice patterns others might miss.

When everyone else retreats to their quarters, I find my rhythm in the quiet precision of scientific inquiry.

My fingers trace the edge of a vial labeled “Northern Forest - Alpha Class.” Inside swirls dark crimson liquid that could revolutionize our understanding of shifter genetics—if I can unlock its secrets.

This particular sample, from an emerging wolf clan, contains genetic markers I’ve never seen before.

Ancient sequences that, according to our database, shouldn’t exist anymore.

I push another slide under the microscope and lean forward. The nucleotide patterns form familiar sequences, then branch into something unprecedented. Something beautiful in its complexity.

“What are you hiding?” I whisper to the sample, as if it might answer.

My research station stands isolated in the corner of the lab, surrounded by gleaming equipment that represents the pinnacle of Haven’s Heart technology.

The contrast isn’t lost on me—primitive blood samples analyzed by cutting-edge machines, wild clan genetics dissected in a sterile lab environment.

Like examining a hurricane through a perfectly clean window.

The screen beside me flashes with preliminary results.

The computer has finished sequencing the first batch of samples, revealing a genetic structure so complex it defies our current classification system.

These aren’t just ordinary shifters. The markers indicate lineages dating back to pre-barrier times, bloodlines we thought had disappeared centuries ago.

My heart beats faster as I scroll through the data. This could be the breakthrough I’ve been working toward for years—concrete evidence that the wild clans aren’t devolving as commonly believed, but perhaps evolving along different paths. The implications for shifter biology are staggering.

The phone on my desk lights up, vibrating against the metal surface. The caller ID displays “Council Office - Priority.” I hesitate before answering. Council calls at this hour never bring good news.

“Dr.Ashford speaking,” I say, keeping my voice level.

“Doctor.” The crisp, authoritative voice of Representative Caldwell fills the line. “The Council requires a progress report on your research into exploitable weaknesses in wild clan genetics.”

I straighten in my chair, careful to keep my expression neutral despite being alone. The Council chambers have cameras everywhere; I’ve learned to assume I’m always being observed.

“I’m still in the preliminary analysis phase,” I reply, choosing my words carefully. “The samples show remarkable resilience. Any exploitable weaknesses would require significantly more time to identify.”

“Time is a luxury we may not have, Doctor.” Caldwell’s tone hardens. “The wild clans grow bolder by the day. The Council needs options in case negotiations fail.”

The unspoken command hangs between us: find a way to hurt them. Find a biological vulnerability we can exploit if diplomacy fails. My stomach tightens at the implications.

“I understand the urgency,” I say, “but rushing genetic analysis often leads to missed opportunities. Some of these samples show potential for medical applications that could benefit all shifters.”

“Your humanitarian interests are noted, Doctor, but remember your primary directive.” Caldwell pauses. “The Council expects concrete results by the end of the month. Focus on identifying weaknesses, not applications.”

The call ends abruptly. I set the phone down and exhale slowly, the weight of my assignment settling across my shoulders. This is the uncomfortable reality of my position—my research could save lives or become a weapon, depending on who wields it.

I return to my microscope, but my concentration has fractured. The ethical implications of my work have always troubled me, but never more than now. These blood samples aren’t just data points; they represent living beings with their own societies, traditions, and rights to exist.

My gaze falls on a locked cabinet in the corner—the one labeled “Priority Acquisition.” Inside sits a list of shifter types whose blood samples would advance our research exponentially.

At the top: “Storm Eagle—Status: Unattainable.” No one has ever captured a Storm Eagle alive.

Those magnificent aerial predators kill their wounded rather than allow them to be taken by ground forces.

I respect that kind of loyalty, even as it frustrates my scientific curiosity.

I’m entering notes about anomalous healing factors when the emergency klaxon shatters the laboratory silence. Red lights pulse overhead, and the automated system announces: “Medical personnel report to deployment bay. Code Red. Casualties at the Northern Settlement outpost.”

My heart pounds as I secure my workstation. I’m a researcher, not a field medic. But all medical personnel with advanced degrees are subject to emergency deployment when casualties overwhelm standard resources.

I’ve never been called up before. This must be catastrophic.

Twenty minutes later, I’m strapped into a military-grade helicopter alongside three other doctors and a team of medics. The chopper vibrates beneath us as we race toward the northern border settlement. Dr.Reeves, our senior physician, briefs us over the roar of the engines.

“The supply convoy was ambushed an hour ago. At least thirty casualties, many critical. The settlement’s medical facility is overwhelmed.” His expression is grim. “Reports indicate coordinated aerial attacks—precision strikes on fuel tanks and medical supplies.”

“Storm Eagles?” asks Dr.Chen, voicing what we’re all thinking.

Reeves nods. “Intelligence confirms their signature attack pattern. They hit the convoy escorts first, then systematically grab critical supplies.”

I’ve studied Storm Eagle genetics from the few samples we’ve collected post-mortem, but I’ve never seen one in action. Their DNA suggests enhanced speed, visual acuity, and possible electrokinetic abilities—theoretical capabilities about to become horrifyingly real.

The helicopter banks sharply, and through the window, I catch my first glimpse of the settlement below.

Smoke rises from multiple points along the northern perimeter.

Emergency vehicles form a chaotic constellation of flashing lights around a central compound.

Even from this height, I can see bodies laid out in rows.

“The primary objective is triage and stabilization,” Reeves continues. “Dr.Ashford, your experience with shifter physiology makes you essential for treating the most severe cases. Don’t waste time on those beyond saving.”

I nod, swallowing hard. My laboratory training didn’t prepare me for battlefield medicine, but I understand the brutal calculus of mass casualty events. Save those who can be saved. Let the rest go.

The helicopter touches down on a makeshift landing pad. The moment the skids hit dirt, organized chaos erupts. Medics unload equipment while settlement guards hustle us toward a converted warehouse now serving as an emergency medical center.

The smell hits me first—blood, burning fuel, and the acrid scent of fear. Inside the warehouse, rows of makeshift beds hold the wounded. Some scream; others lie too still. Medical personnel move between them with practiced urgency, their faces masks of controlled desperation.

“Dr.Ashford!” A young medic waves me toward a corner where three patients lie with extensive burns. “These three were closest to the fuel explosion. They need immediate attention.”

I pull on gloves and move to the first patient, a young woman with third-degree burns across her torso. Her eyes are wide with shock, pupils dilated. I check her vitals—rapid pulse, shallow breathing, dropping blood pressure. The classic shock symptoms are compounded by severe tissue damage.

“Get me a burn kit and blood expander,” I tell the medic. As I work, I catalog her injuries with clinical detachment. It’s the only way to function amid such suffering.

What strikes me immediately is the precision of her wounds. These aren’t random burns from an explosion; they follow a distinct pattern suggesting directed energy. The damage indicates a controlled strike, not indiscriminate destruction.

I move between patients, treating the most critical injuries first. Each case tells the same story—tactical, surgical attacks designed to incapacitate the victim while they snatch essential supplies. This wasn’t mindless violence; this was strategic. Calculated.

Two hours into our emergency response, I’ve stabilized four critical patients when the ground beneath us trembles. A distant explosion reverberates through the warehouse walls.

“They’re back!” someone shouts. “Second wave incoming!”

Guards rush to secure the perimeter while medical staff hunker down with patients. I move to the nearest window, drawn by a scientist’s fatal curiosity.

The sky above the settlement darkens—not with clouds, but with wings.

A formation of massive eagles soars in perfect precision, their wingspans easily twice that of natural birds.

My breath catches in my throat. Storm Eagles.

The specimens I’ve studied in labs don’t begin to capture their magnificence in flight.

At their center flies an enormous golden eagle, its wingspan dwarfing the others. As I watch, it banks sharply, leading the formation into a dive toward the settlement’s northern gate. Lightning crackles around its wingtips, impossible blue-white energy that defies scientific explanation.

“Get away from the windows!” Dr.Reeves shouts, but I remain transfixed.

The golden eagle—clearly their leader—plummets toward a fuel depot. At the last moment, something astonishing happens. Mid-dive, its form blurs and shifts. For a split second, I glimpse a human silhouette wreathed in lightning before the eagle form reasserts itself.

The transformation happens so quickly, I almost doubt my eyes. Mid-flight shifting is theoretically impossible—the aerodynamic challenges alone should make it fatal. Yet I witnessed it with absolute clarity.

Lightning strikes the fuel depot with devastating precision. The explosion rocks the settlement, sending a fireball into the darkening sky. The Storm Eagles bank as one, circling for another attack run.

I should retreat from the window. I know this. Instead, I press closer, my scientific mind cataloging details my survival instinct screams to ignore.

The golden eagle soars overhead, so close I can see individual feathers gleaming in the firelight.

It slows, wings extended, and for a heart-stopping moment, its gaze meets mine through the window.

Amber eyes, too intelligent to be merely animal, lock onto my face.

Something electric passes between us—recognition, awareness, curiosity.

I can’t name it, but I feel it like a physical touch.

Lightning arcs from the sky, striking meters from my position. The window shatters inward, sending glass fragments slicing through the air. I’m thrown backward, landing hard on the concrete floor as electricity dances across the broken window frame.

A medic drags me away from the destruction, shouting something I can’t hear through the ringing in my ears.

But as they pull me to safety, something strange happens.

A warmth spreads through my chest, radiating outward to my fingertips.

For a moment—brief but undeniable—my hands glow with a silver-blue light I’ve never seen before.

The glow fades as quickly as it appeared, leaving me shaken and confused. What was that? Some residual effect from the lightning strike? Or something within me, responding to danger?

I have no time to process these questions. More wounded arrive, and I throw myself into treatment, pushing the incident to the back of my mind. But something has changed—in me, in my understanding of the world. I can feel it like a door cracking open inside my consciousness.

Hours later, when the attacks finally cease and reinforcements arrive from Haven’s Heart, I step outside the medical facility for a moment of quiet.

The night sky has cleared of Storm Eagles, but I sense they haven’t gone far.

They’re regrouping, analyzing their success, and planning their next move.

Movement above catches my eye—a solitary figure against the stars. The golden eagle circles high overhead, a predator surveying its territory. It shouldn’t be visible at this distance, but somehow I know exactly what I’m seeing.

As I watch, the eagle banks toward the mountains, then hesitates. It turns, circling back, its flight path bringing it directly above my position. Once again, I feel that strange connection—a recognition beyond explanation.

Then it’s gone, vanishing into the darkness toward the distant peaks.

I stand there long after it disappears, my mind racing with implications.

These aren’t just raiders striking randomly.

They’re following someone’s orders—someone brilliant, strategic, and dangerous.

The golden eagle leads them with purpose and precision that speaks of military training and tactical genius.

And somehow, impossibly, I feel drawn to that dangerous intelligence. Something about our brief connection has awakened something inside me—a power I didn’t know I possessed, a destiny I never imagined.

Whatever changed in me tonight, I know with absolute certainty that I haven’t seen the last of the Storm Eagles—or their golden leader.