16. Chapter 16 - Evan
T he beeping had barely stopped echoing down the hall before the silence became unbearable.
It’s been just over two hours since Dahlia had stabilized the shifter and then locked herself in her room without a word.
"She's been in there for hours," I mutter, staring at Dahlia's closed bedroom door.
Leo leans against the wall opposite me, arms crossed. "Give her space."
"I've given her plenty of space." I run a hand through my hair, probably making it stick up in all directions. "She just found out I helped create the virus that's killing shifters. Space isn't going to fix that."
"Nothing will fix that," Onyx growls from his position by the window.
Axl, sprawled across the couch like he owns the place, watches me with an unnerving intensity. "So, you really did it? Created this plague thing?"
"I didn't know what it would become," I snap, tired of explaining myself.
"But you did it," Axl persists.
I clench my jaw. "Yes."
The silence that follows is heavy with judgment. I deserve it, but that doesn't make it easier to bear.
"Fuck this," I push away from the wall. "I need to talk to her."
Leo steps forward. "She asked not to be disturbed."
"Move," I say quietly.
Something in my voice must convince him I'm serious because he steps aside, though reluctantly.
I walk down the hallway to Dahlia's room and stand outside her door for a moment, gathering my courage. Then I knock softly.
"Who is it?" Her voice sounds exhausted.
"It's me. Evan."
A pause. "Come in."
I push the door open slowly. The room is dimly lit, just a small lamp casting shadows across the walls. Dahlia sits on the edge of her bed, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her curls wild from running her hands through them repeatedly.
"Hey," I say, closing the door behind me.
"Hey yourself." She doesn't look up.
I cross the room and sit beside her on the bed, careful to leave space between us. "How's the patient?"
"He's stable." She rubs her eyes. "I had to put him in a medically induced coma. His body was tearing itself apart."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?" Now she looks at me.
"Yes," I say simply. "For everything."
She studies my face, searching for lies. "You almost let him die. You sat on information that could have helped me save him."
"I know." I look down at my hands. "I hate what I've done, Dahlia. I hate the part I played in all this. That's why I'm trying to fix it."
"By throwing money at the problem or by hiding in your fancy safe house while others suffer?"
"By finding you," I counter, meeting her gaze. "The best geneticist in the country. Maybe the world."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Flattery won't save you, Evan."
"It's not flattery if it's true." I shift slightly, turning to face her more fully. "I will do everything in my power to make this right. Whatever you need, equipment, resources, test subjects, it's yours."
"What I needed was the truth from the beginning." She pulls her knees up to her chest, making herself smaller. "Do you have any idea how much time I wasted trying to understand this virus? Time I could have spent working on a cure?"
"I'm sorry," I say again, knowing how inadequate the words are.
"Stop saying that." She drops her head to her knees. "Just... stop."
We sit in silence for a moment.
"I'm scared," she finally whispers.
The admission catches me off guard. "Of what?"
"Of failing." She lifts her head, and her eyes shine with unshed tears. "What if I can't find a cure? What if Hammond succeeds in whatever he's planning next? This virus was just the beginning, wasn't it?"
"Probably," I admit. "Hammond isn't the type to give up easily. If this virus fails to meet his expectations, he's likely working on something new."
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be." I reach out, hesitating before letting my hand fall back to my side. "But at least now we know what we're up against. We have his research, his formulas. We can work backward from there."
"We?" She raises an eyebrow.
"Yes, we." I hold her gaze. "I'm not walking away from this, Dahlia. I can't. Not until it's fixed."
"You can't fix death," she says softly.
"No," I agree. "But I can prevent more of it."
She wipes her eyes. "I want to hate you."
"I know."
"But I can't." She sighs. "Not when there's a bigger enemy out there. Not when Hammond might be creating something even worse as we speak."
"So, what now?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.
"We work together." She straightens her shoulders. "You have to give me everything you know about Hammond, about the virus, and about the research. No more secrets."
"Done," I say immediately. "No more secrets."
"And you help me in the lab. You were part of the original research team. You understand this virus in ways I don't."
I nod. "Anything else?"
"Yes." She fixes me with a stern look. "You tell the others. All of it. They deserve to know who they're working with."
My stomach tightens. "They'll kill me."
"They won't." She almost smiles. "I won't let them."
"Why would you protect me?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"Because I need your brain intact to find this cure." She pushes a curl behind her ear. "And because... I don't think you're a monster. Not completely, anyway."
"That's high praise," I say dryly.
To my surprise, she laughs out loud this time. "You're such an ass."
"I prefer the term 'complicated individual,'" I reply, feeling something in my chest loosen at the sound of her laughter.
"Is that what you want to call it?" She shakes her head, but the ghost of a smile lingers on her lips.
"What would you call it?" I ask, leaning slightly closer.
"A disaster," she says, "A complete and utter disaster."
"That seems fair." I reach out again, and this time I let my fingers brush against hers where they rest on the bed. "For what it's worth, I never meant to hurt you."
"I know." She doesn't pull her hand away. "You're many things, Evan Blackthorn, but you're not cruel. Not deliberately."
"I'm just thoughtless? Selfish? Arrogant?" I supply.
"All of the above." Now she's smiling, though tears still glisten in her eyes. "With a side of insufferable."
"You forgot devastatingly handsome," I add, trying to keep her smiling.
She rolls her eyes. "And modest too."
"Modesty is overrated." I move my thumb across her knuckles in a gentle caress. "Especially when one has so much to be immodest about."
"You're impossible." She laughs again, wiping at her tears with her free hand.
"Yet here you are," I point out, "not kicking me out of your room."
"A lapse in judgment, clearly."
"Or excellent judgment." I smile. "Depending on your perspective."
She studies me, her expression softening. "Why do you make it so hard to stay angry at you?"
"Maybe it's my natural charm?"
"Try again."
"Years of practice deflecting with humor and good looks?"
"Getting warmer." She turns her hand over, her palm now against mine.
My heart beats faster at the small gesture. "Dahlia..."
"What?" Her voice drops lower.
"I don't deserve your forgiveness," I say honestly.
"No, you don't." She intertwines her fingers with mine. "But maybe that's not what this is about."
"What is it about, then?"
"Moving forward." She meets my eyes. "And finding a way through this mess together."
I look down at our joined hands. "I'd like that."
"Me too," she whispers.
The air between us shifts, charges with something electric and inevitable. I lift my gaze to find her watching me, her eyes dark in the dim light.
"Evan?" Her voice is barely audible.
"Yes?"
"Kiss me."
I freeze; certain I've misheard. "What?"
"You heard me." She moves closer, eliminating the space between us on the bed. "Kiss me."
"Are you sure?" I search her face for any sign of doubt. "After everything I've told you…"
"I'm sure," she interrupts. "I'm angry and confused and terrified about what's coming. But right now, at this moment, I want you to kiss me."
I don't need to be told a third time. I cup her face with my free hand, my thumb brushing away the remnants of tears on her cheek. She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed.
I close the distance between us slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind. When my lips finally meet hers, she sighs against my mouth, a sound of surrender that ignites something primal inside me.
The kiss is gentle at first, like a question asked and answered. Then her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, and all gentleness evaporates. I wrap my arm around her waist, dragging her against me as the kiss deepens.
She tastes like coffee and salt from her tears, and something uniquely Dahlia that I've been craving since that first kiss in my office. I can't get enough.
Her hands roam down my chest, tugging at my shirt. I groan against her mouth as she shifts, swinging one leg over to straddle my lap. The weight of her, the heat of her through our clothes, makes my head spin.
"Dahlia," I gasp as she rocks against me, creating delicious friction where I'm already hard for her.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, something between a whimper and a moan that nearly undoes me. Her fingers work at my shirt buttons, clumsy with urgency.
"Wait," I manage to say, pulling back slightly. "Stop."
She freezes, her hands still on my chest. "What's wrong? Don't you want me?"
"Fuck… You have no idea how much I want you. How much self-control I'm exercising right now."
"Then why stop?" She shifts on my lap, and I must bite my lip to keep from groaning.
"Because you just found out I helped create a deadly virus," I remind her, my hands resting on her hips to keep her still. "Because an hour ago, you called me a monster."
"I was angry," she says, with her fingers tracing patterns on my chest through my partially unbuttoned shirt.
"You had every right to be," I catch her hands in mine. "I don't want you to do something you'll regret when your head clears."