Page 11 of Where Lightning Strikes Twice (Fated Mates, Stubborn Hearts #2)

ELENA

T he golden vial of blood sits on my workbench, catching the first light of dawn through the small lab window. I’ve spent all night analyzing it, running test after test, comparing it to every shifter blood sample in my database. I should be exhausted, but I’m electrified with discovery.

Kael’s blood is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered.

The genetic markers indicating storm magic are not just present but dominant, interwoven with his DNA in patterns so complex my equipment struggles to map them.

This isn’t just a shapeshifter adaptation—it’s an entirely different category of being.

And most unsettling of all, there are unmistakable similarities to the anomalies in my own genetic profile.

I cross-check the results for the third time, hoping to find some error, some contamination that would explain away the frightening implications.

But the data remains stubbornly consistent.

The markers I’ve always dismissed as statistical anomalies in my own DNA match perfectly with the storm-touched sequences in Kael’s blood.

“This can’t be right,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair.

The quarantine room door slides open, and I quickly minimize the screen. Zara steps out, looking remarkably recovered. The silver line where her wound had been is barely visible now.

“Your brother isn’t back yet?” I ask, checking the time. It’s nearly 6 AM, and the medical staff will arrive soon.

“He’ll come,” Zara says confidently. “Viktor must have kept him longer than expected at some political meeting.” She approaches my workstation, glancing at the equipment with open curiosity. “What have you discovered about his blood?”

I hesitate, uncertain how much to share. “It’s… extraordinary. The genetic adaptations that allow Storm Eagles to channel lightning aren’t just physical—they’re encoded at the deepest level of your DNA.”

Zara smiles, unsurprised. “We’ve always known we’re not like other shifters. Our connection to the storm is older than our eagle forms.”

“That’s exactly what the data suggests,” I agree, excitement overcoming my caution. “Your ancestors weren’t eagles who developed storm magic—they were storm entities who took eagle form.”

“And somehow, you share this heritage,” she says, not a question but a statement.

I start to deny it, then stop myself. “How did you know?”

“I saw your hands when you healed me.” She gestures to her arm. “Only storm-touched beings can channel that kind of power. It’s rare even among our people.”

Before I can respond, my tablet chimes with a priority alert. I tap the screen to find a message from my brother Marcus: “Arriving 0900 hours for inspection. Prepare a full briefing on Storm Eagle research.”

My blood runs cold. Marcus is the last person I want examining my current work. As Haven’s Heart Military Research Liaison, he represents exactly the faction that would weaponize any discovery about Storm Eagle biology—or my connection to it.

“Problem?” Zara asks, noticing my expression.

“My brother is arriving this morning. He can’t find you here.” I start shutting down equipment, securing samples. “And I need to hide any trace of these tests.”

Zara frowns. “You fear your own brother?”

“I fear what he represents,” I correct her. “Marcus is a good man, but his loyalty to Haven’s Heart is absolute. He believes in the system, in maintaining security through strength. If he discovered I was harboring a Storm Eagle…”

“Or that you’ve been collaborating with our leader,” Zara finishes. “I understand. I’ll stay hidden.”

I transfer my research data to a secure drive, then wipe the system’s history. The blood samples go into a concealed compartment beneath a floor tile—one I installed myself when I realized I might need to conduct unauthorized research.

“We have three hours before he arrives,” I tell Zara. “I’m going to sedate you lightly—just enough that your readings will register as a coma patient if anyone checks. If someone enters, stay absolutely still.”

She nods, accepting this necessity without argument. As I prepare the mild sedative, Zara studies me with those intelligent golden eyes so like her brother’s.

“How long have you known?” she asks. “About your heritage?”

My hands pause over the syringe. “I didn’t know—not really. I’ve always had… moments. Times when I felt something inside me responding to electrical storms. My parents died when I was sixteen, and they never mentioned anything unusual about our family history.”

“Perhaps they didn’t know either,” she suggests. “Storm-touched bloodlines can remain dormant for generations, awakening only under specific circumstances.”

“Like proximity to Storm Eagles?” I ask, thinking of how my abilities first manifested during the raid.

“Or proximity to a fated mate,” Zara says quietly.

I nearly drop the syringe. “That’s not—we’re not?—”

Zara’s smile is gentle but knowing. “The mate bond is rare among our people, but unmistakable when it occurs. I’ve seen how my brother looks at you. How he speaks of you.”

“He barely knows me,” I protest, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

“The heart knows what the mind does not yet accept,” she says simply. “And your powers awakened in his presence. That’s not a coincidence.”

I administer the sedative, unwilling to pursue this conversation.

The idea of a mate bond—something I’ve only read about in shifter biology texts—is too overwhelming to consider on top of everything else.

Especially when that bond would connect me to someone whose people my own government seeks to destroy.

After ensuring Zara appears to be an ordinary coma patient, I prepare for my brother’s visit. I shower, change into a fresh uniform, and assemble a sanitized version of my Storm Eagle research—just enough to satisfy Marcus without revealing anything truly valuable.

At precisely 9 AM, I hear the whir of helicopter blades approaching the settlement.

I step outside the medical facility to see a sleek military transport landing in the central square.

Marcus steps out in his crisp Haven’s Heart uniform, his bearing so military-precise it makes my heart ache with fondness despite my apprehension.

“Elena,” he says, embracing me briefly. “You look terrible.”

“Always the charmer,” I reply, smiling despite myself. “Frontier medicine doesn’t leave much time for beauty sleep.”

He studies me with the same brown eyes we inherited from our father, though his lack the hints of gold that I’ve recently noticed in my own. “I’ve read your reports. Impressive work on those Storm Eagle tissue samples.”

“Thank you,” I say carefully, falling into step beside him as we enter the medical facility. “Though I’ve only scratched the surface of their biological adaptations.”

“The Council is particularly interested in your observations about their hierarchical structure.” Marcus examines the facility with military precision. “This leader you mentioned—the golden eagle. Have you gathered more data on him specifically?”

My pulse quickens. “Limited observations only. He appears larger than the others, with greater control over storm energies. Based on attack patterns, I believe he’s strategically sophisticated.”

Marcus nods. “Intelligence suggests he’s called the Stormwright—their clan leader. Capturing him would cripple their organizational structure.”

“Capturing him would be nearly impossible,” I counter, perhaps too quickly. “Storm Eagles kill themselves rather than face captivity, and they protect their leader with suicidal devotion.”

“Every defense has weaknesses,” Marcus says, the phrase he’s repeated since childhood. “That’s where your research comes in.”

He walks through the main treatment area, greeting military personnel and examining our equipment. I follow, maintaining a professional demeanor while silently praying he won’t investigate the quarantine room.

“Show me your lab,” he says eventually. “I want to see your current projects.”

I lead him to my research space, relieved that I’d secured everything sensitive. “I’m focusing on understanding their physiology rather than seeking specific vulnerabilities. The more we know about how they function, the better we can predict their behavior.”

Marcus scrolls through the sanitized data I’ve prepared. “This is all very academic, Elena. The Council needs actionable intelligence.”

“Science can’t be rushed,” I reply, the same argument we’ve had throughout our careers.

“Wars don’t wait for peer review,” he counters, as always.

Then he pauses, examining a test result I’d overlooked—a partial analysis of the electrical conductivity in Storm Eagle nerve tissues.

“This is interesting. Their neural pathways conduct electrical energy at rates far beyond normal shifters.”

I tense, realizing too late the implications. “Yes, it enables their lighting manipulation.”

“It also suggests a potential vulnerability,” Marcus says, his tactical mind making connections I’d hoped to avoid. “A targeted electromagnetic pulse could potentially disrupt their entire nervous system.”

Horror fills me at the thought. Having felt Kael’s storm energy, having channeled something similar myself, I understand this wouldn’t just disable them—it would be excruciating, like setting every nerve ending on fire simultaneously.

“That’s theoretical,” I say quickly. “And it would require extensive testing to confirm.”

“Then accelerate your research in that direction,” Marcus instructs, still scrolling through data. “The Council is considering a preemptive strike against the Storm Eagle aerie. Your findings could make it more… humane.”

The casual mention of genocide disguised as military necessity sends ice through my veins. “Preemptive strike? Based on what justification? They’ve only targeted supply convoys, not civilian populations.”