Page 4 of Where Lightning Strikes Twice (Fated Mates, Stubborn Hearts #2)

ELENA

I wipe sweat from my forehead as I finish hanging the last of the surgical lights in our makeshift field hospital.

Three days of backbreaking work have transformed an abandoned warehouse at the edge of the northern settlement into a functional medical facility.

Not ideal by Haven’s Heart standards, but better than treating the wounded in tents.

“Dr.Ashford, where should I set up the blood analysis equipment?” Dr.Chen calls from across the room, his arms full of delicate testing apparatus.

“Against the east wall,” I respond, pointing to the cleanest corner we’ve managed to create. “We need to keep it away from the main treatment areas. And make sure to triple-check the calibration—frontier power fluctuations could compromise our results.”

He nods and moves to follow my instructions.

I’ve worked with Chen for years in Haven’s Heart research division, and his presence here is one of the few comforts in this chaotic assignment.

The Council didn’t just send me to the frontier; they dispatched a small team of medical personnel—all with specific expertise in shifter biology.

Our assignment was clear: establish a permanent medical presence near the mountain settlements and gather intelligence on the Storm Eagles through treating their victims. What the Council didn’t say but clearly implied: find weaknesses we can exploit when diplomacy inevitably fails.

I check my tablet, reviewing our inventory of supplies. The replacement convoy should arrive tomorrow, assuming it doesn’t meet the same fate as the last three. My mouth tightens as I recall the precision of those attacks—surgical in their execution, devastating in their impact.

“Dr.Ashford?” A voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn to find Captain Reed, our military liaison, standing at attention. His crisp uniform looks absurdly formal amid our hastily assembled medical bay.

“Yes, Captain?” I try to keep the fatigue out of my voice. Reed represents everything that frustrates me about this assignment—the military’s fixation on threat assessment rather than humanitarian aid.

“Settlement Commander Walsh requests your presence at the morning briefing. He wants your medical team’s preliminary findings on the Storm Eagle attack patterns.”

I suppress a sigh. “Tell the Commander I’ll be there, but I need to finish setting up our critical care units first. These people need medical attention more than the Commander needs another report.”

Reed’s expression hardens. “Dr.Ashford, with all due respect, your presence at the settlement isn’t merely medical. The Council expects your full cooperation with security protocols.”

“And they’ll have it,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “After I ensure my patients won’t die while I’m attending meetings.”

A standoff follows, one I’ve become accustomed to since arriving at the frontier. The military wants intelligence; I want to heal the wounded. Both of us have our orders, but my Hippocratic oath takes precedence over Council politics.

Reed finally relents. “The briefing is at 0800. Don’t be late.” He turns on his heel and strides from the warehouse, back straight as a rod.

“Making friends as usual, I see,” Dr.Chen remarks dryly, returning to my side.

“You know me. Always the diplomat.” I manage a tired smile. “How’s the equipment looking?”

“Operational, if not optimal. The portable genetic sequencer is particularly temperamental—keeps giving error codes when running shifter samples.”

This catches my attention. “What kind of errors?”

“Classification inconsistencies. The database doesn’t recognize some of the genetic markers we’re finding in the raid victims.”

My scientific curiosity immediately sparks. “Show me.”

Chen leads me to his workstation, where several blood samples are lined up for processing. He pulls up the results on his tablet, and I lean in to examine the data.

“These markers shouldn’t exist,” I murmur, scrolling through the anomalous sequences. “They’re similar to ancient lineage patterns we’ve only seen in pre-barrier historical samples.”

“That’s what I thought,” Chen agrees. “But these are from ordinary settlers who were injured in yesterday’s raid. How would they have Storm Eagle genetic material in their bloodstream?”

“Contamination during the attack,” I hypothesize, mind racing through possibilities. “Trace DNA transfer through talon wounds or—” I stop, a more interesting theory forming. “Or perhaps the Storm Eagles are leaving biological markers deliberately. A form of territorial marking.”

“Biological warfare?” Chen looks alarmed.

“Not necessarily warfare. More like a signature.” I tap the screen, highlighting a specific sequence. “This isn’t causing harm—it’s just… present. Almost like they’re saying ‘we were here’ at a molecular level.”

I make a note to investigate this further when I have time. If the Storm Eagles are capable of such sophisticated biological strategies, it suggests an intelligence and evolutionary advancement far beyond what Haven’s Heart attributes to wild clans.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of activity. More wounded arrive from outlying farms—casualties of smaller, targeted raids. I work methodically, treating burns from lightning strikes, lacerations from talons, and broken bones from falls as settlers tried to escape aerial attacks.

With each patient, I document the nature of their injuries, building a catalog of Storm Eagle attack patterns.

What emerges isn’t the random violence of primitive raiders but precise tactical strikes designed to disable rather than kill.

The Eagles target infrastructure, supply lines, and defensive capabilities—rarely causing civilian casualties unless directly challenged.

It’s the strategy of a military mind, not a wild clan.

By evening, I’ve treated seventeen patients and performed two surgeries.

My hands ache and my back protests as I finally take a moment to drink some water and check my notes.

The pattern of injuries tells a story: the Storm Eagles are getting bolder, their strikes more coordinated, and their targets more strategic.

“You should rest,” Dr.Chen says, appearing at my side with a cup of coffee. “You’ve been on your feet for fourteen hours.”

“I will. Soon.” I accept the coffee gratefully. “I just need to finish these observations while they’re fresh.”

“More data for your Storm Eagle obsession?” His tone is light, but his expression shows concern.

“It’s not an obsession. It’s scientific inquiry.

” But even as I say it, I know there’s truth in his words.

Since witnessing the golden eagle leader in action, I’ve been fixated on understanding these creatures.

Something about their precision, their coordination, their sheer mastery of aerial combat fascinates me on a level beyond professional curiosity.

“Whatever you call it, it’s consuming you.” Chen glances around to ensure we’re alone before continuing in a lower voice. “Elena, some of the team is starting to notice. The way you question every victim about the Eagles, how you’ve requested tissue samples…”

“It’s my job to gather intelligence,” I counter, though a flicker of unease runs through me. “The Council specifically sent me because of my expertise in shifter genetics.”

“There’s a difference between gathering intelligence and…” he searches for the right word, “fixation. Just be careful. Captain Reed is watching you.”

I nod, acknowledging his warning even as I bristle at the implication. My interest is purely scientific. Yet I can’t deny the strange pull I feel toward understanding these aerial predators—particularly their golden leader.

Later that night, I remain in our makeshift lab, analyzing blood samples from today’s patients. The quiet hum of equipment provides a soothing backdrop to my thoughts as I search for more evidence of those anomalous genetic markers.

The computer beeps, indicating it’s found a match to my search parameters. I lean forward, studying the results with growing excitement. The trace Storm Eagle DNA shows markers consistent with elemental manipulation—genetic sequences associated with channeling natural energy sources.

“They’re not just shapeshifters,” I whisper to myself. “They’re elemental conduits.”

This discovery could revolutionize our understanding of shifter evolution.

Most documented shifter types express purely physical transformations—changes in form but not in fundamental energetic makeup.

But these markers suggest the Storm Eagles can actually manipulate and channel storm energy through their genetic structure.

I’m so engrossed in my findings that the knock at the lab door startles me. I quickly save my data and close the screen before calling out, “Come in.”

Settlement Commander Walsh enters, his weathered face grave in the low light. “Dr.Ashford. Working late again?”

“Just following up on some test results,” I reply, keeping my tone professional. “What can I do for you, Commander?”

“We captured something you might want to see.” He gestures for me to follow him. “It won’t keep until morning.”

Intrigued, I grab my medical kit and follow Walsh through the darkened settlement.

The night air carries the scent of pine and woodsmoke, a stark contrast to the antiseptic environment I’ve left behind.

Guards nod respectfully as we pass, their hands never straying far from their weapons.

The recent attacks have everyone on edge.

Walsh leads me to a small outbuilding near the settlement’s perimeter fence. Two armed guards stand at attention outside. They step aside at Walsh’s nod, allowing us entry.

Inside, a single lamp illuminates a makeshift holding cell. On a metal table lies a large, dark object—at first glance, it appears to be a bundle of cloth. On a closer examination, I realize I’m looking at a wing. A Storm Eagle wing, severed near the shoulder.