The doctor’s suit crinkles with each movent, the material catching the harsh fluorescent lights. It reminds of those movies where scientists study deadly viruses. Except this ti, I’m the virus.
"The suit protects against magical backlash," Logan says, his thumb rubbing circles on my hand. It’s his go-to way to keep calm, I think. "Standard procedure."
The doctor’s gloved hands press against my neck, checking my lymph nodes. The touch feels distant, disconnected, like it’s happening to soone else. His movents are precise, clinical, but I notice how he maintains a careful distance, never getting too close.
"Temperature’s normalized," he says, voice muffled through the clear face shield. "Blood pressure stable. Heart rate within acceptable paraters."
The words wash over , my eyes glazed as I repeat those five nas in my head. Nas I refuse to forget.
Private Cooper. Dr. Santos. Nurse Practitioner Chen. Nurse Walsh. Nurse Martinez.
"We need a blood sample."
The words pierce through my fog. Blood. My blood. The mory hits—the nurse approaching with a needle, my panic, the surge of power. The explosion.
Logan’s hand tightens on mine. "Nicole?"
I stare at the doctor’s outstretched hand holding the tourniquet. My arm feels like lead. Every instinct screams to protect my blood, to keep it safe. To prevent anyone from having that kind of power over .
But five people are dead.
Five families destroyed because I couldn’t control whatever lives inside .
The vague, faceless image of Private Cooper’s pregnant wife flashes through my mind. And what about Dr. Santos? Did she have family? People who loved her? People who will never see her again because of ?
My arm moves before I fully process the decision.
I can’t be selfish.
Can’t let more people die because of .
The rubber tourniquet snaps tight around my bicep. I turn my face into Logan’s chest, unable to watch. His heartbeat drums steady against my cheek, a rhythm to focus on instead of the cold alcohol swab on my skin.
The needle slides in. I hold my breath, waiting for sothing. A surge of power, loss of control, absolute insanity in my head.
But nothing happens.
The vial fills with my blood—normal, red blood. Not the iridescent liquid the dragons drew from my veins.
I’m both relieved by the lack of, well, anything happening—and disappointed that I won’t get answers about that strange blood.
The door clicks shut behind the doctor. Logan shifts from his chair to perch on the edge of my bed, close enough that his thigh presses against mine through the thin hospital blanket. The warmth of his body is comfortable, but there’s a complete lack of protective gear between us. No suit. No gloves. Not even a face mask.
My eyes trace the strong line of his jaw, the relaxed set of his shoulders. Why isn’t he wearing one of those suits?
"Trying to tempt with those eyes will get you nowhere." He stretches his arms above his head with a yawn, then wraps one arm behind , tugging closer. "Didn’t realize you were into voyeurism. I gotta warn you, there are caras in here. Everyone can see exactly what we’re doing."
I stare at him, mouth slightly open. Did the explosion sohow affect his brain? Has he completely missed the point that I’m basically a walking nuclear reactor? That I could lose control any second and—
The slight tremor at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
He’s ssing with . I’m having an existential crisis about being a magical murderer, and he’s over here making jokes about our sex life.
My eyes narrow.
"Got you thinking about sothing else for a minute, didn’t I?" He catches my hand, crossing his arm over his body to do so, his thumb finding that familiar circular pattern against my skin. "Besides, if you were going to blow up, you’d have done it already."
How did he even know I was thinking about those suits? I guess it would be pretty obvious, actually.
Settling against him, I hope he doesn’t have to go anywhere anyti soon. My mory isn’t necessarily completely clear, but I can recall how panicked I was with him gone after a while. How my brain went haywire and thought all kinds of things.
It didn’t feel like . It almost felt like that weird drunk feeling from dragon toxin, though not exactly the sa.
A sigh catches in my raw throat, sparking a cough that tears through my chest like barbed wire. Each new cough builds on the last until I’m doubled over, lungs spasming and tears streaming down my face.
Logan’s hand moves in steady circles between my shoulder blades. His other arm wraps around my front, supporting as the fit wracks my body, until the coughs finally subside.
He uses the blanket to dab at the tears on my cheeks, his large hands surprisingly gentle.
"When..." The word cos out as a rasp, barely audible. I swallow, wincing at the pain. "Talk?"
"Shouldn’t take too long, if you can stop trying to hack up your lungs there, sweetheart." His lips quirk up at the corner, green eyes twinkling with forced levity. "Though I have to say, the silent treatnt’s been kind of nice. Really lets get a word in edgewise."
The teasing tone, the careful way he’s trying to keep things light... A cold thought slithers through my mind. Is he only here to keep stable? To prevent another magical explosion? After all, five people are dead because I lost control. Maybe his job is just to keep the body count from rising.
But then I catch his expression—the worry lines creasing around his eyes, the muscle jumping in his clenched jaw. Behind that playful facade, tension radiates from every line of his body. This isn’t duty or obligation. The fear in his eyes isn’t of —it’s for .
Heat floods my cheeks at my own stupidity. How could I think, even for a second, that Logan would fake this? That the man who’s stood by through kidnapping and dragons and magical catastrophes would suddenly beco so kind of glorified babysitter?
Feeling guilty, I snuggle a little closer, appreciating his presence for what it is. Even though I have so many questions.
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