Page 49 of Moth to Her Flame

“Your vital signs are fascinating.” A woman with a severe gray bun, her name tag reads Dr. Warner, adjusts something on her tablet, making the field hum more strongly. “The deterioration is accelerating, but you’re still conscious. Most subjects would have collapsed hours ago.”

The reflections off of the observation room’s clinical white walls and stainless-steel tables burn my eyes. They’ve stripped me to the waist and attached monitors that send constant data about my failing systems to their computers. Every now and then, someone murmurs a comment about “bond degradation” or “energy depletion rates.”

“We could make this much easier.” Warner steps closer to the field’s edge. “Just tell us about the mountain sanctuary’s defenses. Or perhaps…” A significant pause. “About your mate bond with Ms. Rivers?”

My wings twitch weakly at Chelsea’s name. Even that small movement costs precious energy.

“Interesting response.” More notes on her tablet. “You know, it’s remarkable she survived the fall.”

Ice floods my veins. “What fall?” I rasp, eyes wide with terror at what they may have done to my mate.

“Oh.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “They didn’t tell you?” Such false sincerity. “When the security team cornered them at the drainage tunnel exit… Such a shame. All that water, those jagged rocks…”

Is she playing with me? Or, dear gods, could this be true? She’s broadcasting conflicting signals. Is this the truth? A lie?

“You’re lying,” I accuse, trying to read her expression, but doubt gnaws at my certainty. The bond feels wrong—stretched thin,aching with emptiness. Is it just a combination of my torture and the distance between us? Or something worse?

“Would you like to see the medical report?” She cocks her head as though she’s conversing with a dinner date, flirting a bit. This woman has no soul.

The tablet she holds up shows medical documentation. Severe trauma. Internal bleeding. Patient unresponsive…

“No.” The word bursts out as a growl. The bond would tell me if… wouldn’t it?

“Your loyalty is admirable.” Dr. Warner’s voice drips deceptive sympathy. “But she’s beyond your protection now. The least you can do is help us understand the bond. Perhaps prevent other cryptids from suffering the same fate?”

My proboscis emerges to swipe my dry lips. How long has it been since I felt Chelsea’s touch? The bond-sickness clouds everything, making time blur and reality shift. I don’t know if I can trust my own perceptions anymore.

Chelsea’s fine. She has to be fine. Dante and Cypher would have protected her.

But the doubt burrows deeper, fed by exhaustion and pain and that horrible empty space where her warmth should be. Apex’s anti-cryptid weapons are powerful. Maybe my friends were felled by those high-energy bursts.

“Fascinating.” Dr. Warner gestures to a technician. “Increase containment field strength by ten percent. Let’s see how the mate bond responds to additional stress.”

The frequency changes, driving invisible needles into my skull. My wings spasm as what little energy remains tries to compensate. Through graying vision, I watch them document my response with clinical detachment.

“Tell me about the sanctuary’s security systems,” she tries again. “Just the most basic information from you will spare your fellow cryptids this kind of suffering.” The laugh that escapes holds no humor. “Although, if you think this is suffering try publishing in academic journals.”

Her fake mirth evaporates as her expression hardens. “Perhaps we should discuss Ms. Rivers’ condition again? You should probably know what the surgical team is so concerned about.”

“Last chance.” Dr. Warner powers up the machine. “Tell us what we need to know, and this stops. You can even see Ms. Rivers in the medical wing.”

Although seeing Chelsea in the medical wing promises relief, the bond throbs with wrongness. Every instinct screams that Chelsea is alive and as well as could be expected with me being tortured in a holding cell. A wise part of my mind that is clinging to sanity knows this is manipulation, that they’re lying. But the doubt they’ve planted takes root in the fertile soil of bond-sickness and exhaustion.

“Go to hell.”

“Pity.” Warner purses her lips as she nods to the technician. “Begin extraction sequence.”

Agony rips through my system as the machine hums to life. They’re trying to forcibly drain my energy, to understand how cryptid abilities work. The same thing they did to Dr. Andrews’ research subjects. The same thing that we believe killed so many others.

But they don’t understand. The bond isn’t just about energy. It’s not something they can quantify or extract or replicate.

It’s Chelsea’s fingers in my hair. Her lips against my antenna. The way she looks at me like I’m something wonderful instead of monstrous. The trust in her eyes when she lets me hold her. The strength of her spirit calling to mine.

The machine whines higher.

Let them try to measure that.

Let them try to break it.

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