Page 37 of Hart's Redemption

She nodded as if the news didn’t surprise her. “And yet, you didn’t turn. You somehow survived the interaction and continued to develop as a human. That’s where all of us in the medical community got it wrong. There are so few reported cases of immunity, we have next to no data on what that immunity looks like biologically. Now, I do.” She pulled a slim data tab out of a folder on her lap I hadn’t noticed and passedit to me. I stared blankly at pages filled with readouts, numbers, and graphs. “You were never truly immune. I suspect no one is.”

“I’m not following,” Elijah said as he cautiously took the data pad from my numb fingers.

“You became a sort of carrier. The lycanthrope gene only partially attached to your DNA. Enough to subtly influence your development, but not enough to make you a lycan. It wasn’t the bite of the infected lycan that made you turn. It was the genetically modified serum being injected almost directly into your heart interacting with the lycan gene that was already there. It was enough to force the original gene to reattach itself fully to your DNA. And it’s why your symptoms of a rejected bond are so pronounced. When… when Elijah started the bond, so did you.”

Elijah sucked in a ragged breath beside me. I glanced at him, but wasn’t sure what to make of the horror darkening his face. I slowly removed my hand from his suddenly slack grip. “No,” he whispered. “No, I can’t… I didn’t…” His voice caught, and he covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a sob.

“How do we fix it? Is there a way to… undo the bond?” I asked in a dead voice. It was a question I should have asked months ago, but there was no hiding from it anymore. Elijah needed to be free of me, and I needed to be free of him before it killed me, which in turn would kill him. I wouldn’t let that happen.

“Don’t you fuckingdare,” Elijah growled, launching out of seat. “There is no way to ‘undo the bond’,” he pointed an accusatory finger at Dr. Lyons, “and if you know of one—even a damn myth—you keep that shit to yourself.” Abruptly, he dragged me to my feet and held my face so I couldn’t look away from him. “You listen to me, you obstinate, infuriating, beautiful fucking man. I love you. I have absolutelynodesire to be unbonded to you. I didn’t then and I don’t now. And whateveryou need me to do—magic spell, shout from a rooftop, whatever it takes—to make you believe me, I’ll do it.”

I searched his cognac gaze. “Why didn’t you want to have sex with me after my first run?”

Surprise brightened his features. “Because I was scared. What if something happened and I couldn’t bring you home? I was so caught up in my fears, I never… I never paused to think about what you might be feeling.”

“It’s about damn time,” Dr. Lyons announced dramatically. Elijah and I turned to look at her, though it was a little difficult in my case, given that Elijah was still holding my face. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You two are going to go home, work on your communication, and fuck your brains out—yes, that is an official prescription, and I expect you to take doctor’s orders seriously. As for the sedatives. Detective Hart, I know it hasn’t been easy, but I need you to work on not relying on them. While addiction is always a concern with powerful medications, I’m more concerned about their continued efficacy. You’re adapting to them.”

Well, that was terrible fucking news.

Chapter 12

Elijah

Iwalkedintothelivingroom to find that Josh had moved all the furniture towards the walls and was now sitting cross-legged on the area rug. As I got deeper into the room, the subtle tones of chimes and bamboo flutes of traditional Tibetan music played softly through the speakers, barely loud enough to hear, while Josh sat there, the absolute picture of serenity. His face bore no signs of stress, his lips parted slightly like they did when he slept, and his hands rested palms up on his thighs.

My heart fluttered at the sheer beauty that was Joshua Hart. The visit to Dr. Lyons had been illuminating. I knew the amount of healing we needed wouldn’t happen overnight, but we were working on it.

“What are you staring at?” Josh asked, his eyes still closed.

I offered a smile that bordered on a leer, knowing full well he couldn’t see it, but suspected he could guess.

He arched an eyebrow, but kept his eyes firmly shut.

“I'm just surprised to see you out here.”

“The idea was that if I did it out here, you’d actually know I was trying.”

Stars, I loved this man. His words made warmth blossom in my chest and clogged my tongue. When we’d argued the other day about the sedatives and his regimen of meditation, or more appropriately, lack of, not to mention what Dr. Lyons had shared, I assumed he’d dismiss everything and continue hiding out in the guest room. To say I was relieved he hadn’t would be putting it lightly. One of these days, I’d stop being so damned surprised by his thoughtfulness.

“For the record, being out here hasn’t made it any easier or made me feel any more successful,” he grumbled.

“Perhaps I can help with that.”

He blew a sharp exhale of air through his nose and rolled his shoulders and neck, all without once looking at me. I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back a laugh. Josh’s image of calm was exactly that—an image. If he looked any more uncomfortable, he’d literally be crawling out of his skin.

I offered him another roguish grin as an idea came to mind. “Atlas, play Smooth Jazz station five.”

A small beep sounded, and I shook my head. I still hadn’t changed the settings back to vocal responses, but the AI performed the desired task, and the dulcet tones of a saxophone and the soft keystrokes of a skilled pianist drifted through the surround sound.

“Now you’re messing with my music? I’ll have you know it took me an hour to find a station without birds.” Despite his words, his shoulders instantly relaxed.

I finished walking around the haphazard arrangement of furniture and settled on the ground behind him. I scooted in close, stretching my legs on either side of him, and nestled him firmly between my thighs.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I chuckled and pressed my thumbs gently into the base of his skull and rotated them in small circles. “Helping.” A low moan fell out of him before he could stop it, and his hands clenched briefly on his thighs before opening back up. I gradually shifted from massaging his neck to working out the knots in his shoulders.

“Last time I checked, meditation was considered a solitary exercise,” he said in the same tone he’d used when I was only the Klamath liaison to the Lycan Detective. Now I recognized the tone for what it was–a defense mechanism. A subtle request for more tempered by the expectation of rejection.