Page 5 of Where Lightning Strikes Twice (Fated Mates, Stubborn Hearts #2)

My stomach lurches, but my scientific mind immediately takes over. “Where did you find this?”

“Patrol found it in the western woods,” Walsh explains. “Must have been injured in the last raid and couldn’t make it back to their territory.”

I approach the table, medical training overriding my initial revulsion. The wing is massive—at least six feet in length, covered in dark gray feathers with distinctive silver tips along the edges. Not golden like the leader’s, but still impressive.

“Was there a body?” I ask, carefully examining the wound site. The cut is clean, almost surgical, not the ragged tear of combat or predator attack.

“No.Just this.” Walsh watches me curiously. “Can you learn anything from it?”

“Possibly.” I open my medical kit and begin taking samples—blood, tissue, feather fragments. Each goes into a separate container, carefully labeled. “This is the first Storm Eagle biological material we’ve been able to recover intact. Their wounded typically don’t survive capture.”

“They kill themselves rather than be taken,” Walsh confirms grimly. “Fanatics.”

I don’t respond to his characterization, too focused on my examination. The wing shows signs of advanced evolution beyond normal raptor anatomy—reinforced bone structure, specialized feather arrangement for channeling electrical current, muscle attachments designed for mid-flight shifting.

“This isn’t just a severed wing,” I say after several minutes of examination. “It was deliberately cut off and left for us to find.”

Walsh frowns. “What makes you say that?”

I point to the wound edge. “This is a clean cut, made with a blade. And look at the positioning of the blood vessels—they’ve been cauterized. Someone wanted this wing preserved long enough for us to find it.”

“A message?” Walsh’s hand moves to his weapon.

“Or a warning.” I continue my examination, increasingly certain this was no random find. “Commander, I need to take this back to my lab for proper analysis.”

He hesitates, then nods. “Have your findings on my desk by tomorrow afternoon. And Dr.Ashford—this doesn’t leave the settlement. Security protocol.”

I agree, though internally I’m already cataloging the tests I need to run, the data I hope to extract from this unprecedented specimen. If I can isolate intact DNA from the tissue, it could provide insights into Storm Eagle genetics that would be impossible to obtain otherwise.

Back in my lab, I work through the night, processing samples and running analysis after analysis.

The results confirm my initial theory and reveal much more.

The wing contains genetic markers linked to primordial storm magic—evidence that Storm Eagles aren’t just another wild clan but descendants of ancient magical bloodlines thought extinct for centuries.

Their ability to control lightning isn’t just a physical adaptation; it’s a magical inheritance, encoded in their very DNA. This discovery could change everything we understand about shifter evolution and magical heredity.

I’m documenting my findings when a notification pops up on my screen—an incoming priority message from Haven’s Heart. Director Voss, my superior in the research division, appears on the video link. Her expression is stern.

“Dr.Ashford, I’ve received reports of unusual research activities at your frontier posting. Care to explain?”

I choose my words carefully. “I’ve been analyzing samples from Storm Eagle attack victims, as per my assignment. The data shows some unexpected genetic anomalies.”

“Anomalies that you’ve failed to include in your official reports,” she counters.

“I wanted to verify my findings before submitting preliminary conclusions,” I reply, maintaining an even tone despite my racing heart. How much does she know about the wing?

“The Council didn’t send you to conduct independent research, Doctor. They sent you to find exploitable weaknesses.” Her voice hardens. “Your next report will detail potential vulnerabilities in Storm Eagle physiology, not academic curiosities about their genetic heritage.”

“Director, with respect, understanding their genetic structure is crucial to identifying any biological vulnerabilities?—”

“You have three days to produce actionable intelligence, or you’ll be recalled to Haven’s Heart.” The threat hangs between us. “Don’t forget where your loyalties lie, Elena.”

The connection terminates, leaving me staring at a blank screen. A knot forms in my stomach. The Council doesn’t want understanding; they want weapons. And they expect me to provide them, regardless of the ethical implications.

I glance at my research—the fascinating, revolutionary discoveries about Storm Eagle biology—and wonder how much of it I dare include in my official report. How much will be twisted into means of extermination rather than avenues for potential coexistence?

The next morning, exhausted but determined, I join the settlement’s daily briefing. Captain Reed eyes me suspiciously as I take my seat, no doubt aware of my late-night activities. Commander Walsh outlines recent attack patterns and defensive strategies before turning to me.

“Dr.Ashford, share your findings on the recovered specimen.”

All eyes turn to me. I stand, tablet in hand, and present a carefully edited version of my research—enough to demonstrate the Storm Eagles’ advanced biology but omitting the more remarkable aspects of their genetic heritage that might make them targets for more aggressive action.

“Based on tissue analysis, Storm Eagles show highly evolved aerial adaptations and enhanced neural pathways consistent with coordinated tactical thinking,” I explain. “Their attack patterns suggest a hierarchical command structure rather than the typical alpha-led formations of wild clans.”

“Can they be killed?” one of the security officers interrupts bluntly.

I meet his gaze steadily. “They’re biological organisms, so yes. But their reflexes, sensory perception, and aerial maneuverability make them extremely difficult targets. Additionally, their social structure appears to include sacrificial protection of leadership figures.”

“Meaning?” Walsh prompts.

“Meaning they’ll die to protect their leader—the golden eagle I observed during the convoy attack.” I hesitate, then add, “And based on their tactical sophistication, I believe that leader is not just physically different but intellectually superior—capable of complex strategic planning.”

“You sound almost admiring, Doctor,” Captain Reed remarks coldly.

“I’m being scientifically objective,” I counter. “Understanding their capabilities helps us predict their actions. For instance, their attacks have focused on supplies rather than population centers, suggesting they’re facing resource shortages, not territorial expansion.”

This observation sparks debate among the security team.

Some argue for preemptive strikes against suspected Storm Eagle nesting sites; others favor reinforcing supply routes and defensive positions.

I listen, offering medical perspectives where relevant, but my mind keeps returning to the extraordinary genetic markers I discovered overnight.

After the briefing, I return to the medical facility to find several new patients waiting—farmers caught in a dawn raid on outlying fields.

Their injuries follow the now-familiar pattern: precise, disabling wounds rather than lethal attacks.

I treat them methodically, documenting each case while listening to their descriptions of the raid.

“They came from the sun, so we couldn’t see them until they were on us,” an older man explains as I clean a talon wound on his shoulder. “Six, maybe seven big ones. But they didn’t attack us at first—they went for the grain storage.”

“Did you see their leader?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “A larger one, with golden feathers?”

The farmer’s eyes widen. “Yes! The biggest eagle I ever saw. Gave some kind of cry, and the others fell into formation like trained soldiers. How’d you know?”

“Just gathering information,” I reply, applying a regenerative gel to his wound. “Rest now. The medication will help with the pain.”

Throughout the day, I treat more victims, each account adding to my mental profile of the Storm Eagles’ tactics. By evening, a clear picture emerges: they’re targeting food supplies with increasing desperation. Whatever resource shortage they’re experiencing, it’s getting worse.

That night, I sit alone in my lab, reviewing blood samples from the day’s patients.

Once again, I find trace Storm Eagle DNA in the wounds—those same extraordinary genetic markers linking them to ancient magical bloodlines.

I cross-reference the data with historical records, searching for precedents.

The computer suddenly flickers, the lights dimming momentarily before returning to normal. I glance up, frowning. Power fluctuations aren’t uncommon at the frontier, but this felt different—more like a pulse than a typical brownout.

I return to my work, but moments later, it happens again. This time, when the lights return, I notice something strange—a faint blue-silver glow emanating from my hands. I stare, heart pounding, as the glow intensifies briefly before fading away.

“What the hell?” I whisper, examining my hands. They look normal now, but I felt something—a surge of energy, a resonance with something deep inside me that I’ve never acknowledged.

The computer beeps, drawing my attention back to the screen. The genetic analysis has been completed, highlighting similarities between the Storm Eagle DNA and certain rare human genetic markers—markers present in my own genetic profile, according to my medical records.

Impossible. I shake my head, blaming fatigue for making me see connections that can’t exist. I’m a scientist, a doctor, a geneticist specializing in shifter biology. Not a shifter myself. Not connected to these creatures in any biological way.

Yet as I stare at the screen, another power fluctuation ripples through the lab. This time, I watch in disbelief as my hands definitely glow with blue-silver light, responding to the electromagnetic pulse like a tuning fork to its matching frequency.

A memory surfaces—the moment during the convoy attack when lightning struck near me, and something awakened inside me. That same energy stirs now, responding to the Storm Eagle genetic material in my lab.

I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing thoughts. There must be a scientific explanation. Perhaps exposure to Storm Eagle’s biological material has triggered some kind of sympathetic reaction. Or maybe I’m simply exhausted, hallucinating after too many sleepless nights.

When I open my eyes, the glow has faded, but the implications remain. Something inside me recognizes something in the Storm Eagles. And that recognition terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.

I shut down my computer, carefully securing my research before leaving the lab. Tomorrow I’ll run tests on myself, find a rational explanation for what just happened. There must be one. The alternative—that I share some genetic heritage with the creatures I’m studying—is too incredible to consider.

As I walk back to my quarters through the quiet settlement, the night sky above me crackles with distant lightning.

A storm is brewing over the mountains where the Eagles make their home.

I pause, looking up at the gathering clouds, and feel an inexplicable longing to understand the creatures who ride those storms.

What are you? I wonder, addressing the absent Eagles. And if I can hear the storm calling to something inside me… what am I?

I have no answers, only questions that grow more complicated by the day. But one thing becomes increasingly clear as I finally seek my bed: the Storm Eagles are more than they appear. And perhaps, in ways I’m only beginning to glimpse, so am I.

My dreams that night are filled with golden eyes and lightning, with the sensation of falling and flying simultaneously. I wake before dawn, my heart racing and my hands glowing faintly in the darkness of my room. As the light fades from my skin, I make a decision.

Whatever connection exists between me and the Storm Eagles, I will uncover it—not for Haven’s Heart, not for the Council, but for myself. Because for the first time in my life, I feel as though I’m on the verge of discovering who I truly am.

And that truth, whatever it may be, begins with understanding the golden eagle who watches from the storm.