Chapter 22
Emmy spent the next two weeks in a blur of preparation. She refined her presentation slides, practiced her defense, and ran additional analyses to anticipate every possible question.
Zander and Spence both left for Juneau three days before her defense, needing to deal with coterie and pack politics that couldn’t wait.
We’ll be back the night before, Zander promised. Wild horses couldn’t keep us away.
Or bears, Spence added, and Emmy felt his smile, since they were going to deal with a bear problem, in particular.
The defense was scheduled for 2 p.m. on a Thursday in the Biological Sciences building, Conference Room 301. Emmy arrived an hour early, and Delaney and Spence sat in the room while she set up her laptop and slides, and tried not to throw up from nerves.
Both had to leave before it started, and they went into the hallway about ten minutes before.
The committee filed in as a group at 1:58 and took their seats.
The first to enter was a man in tweed, full of pompous ego, walking as if he had a stick up his ass, and he waited for everyone else to take a seat before he settled into the center chair. “Ms. Drake. You may begin.”
Emmy took a breath and pulled up her first slide.
“The inability of eastern cottontails and domestic rabbits to produce fertile offspring has been considered absolute since the 1960s,” she began.
“My research identifies the mechanism of this incompatibility and presents a solution that generates viable, fertile hybrids in both directions across multiple generations.”
She walked them through her methodology — the initial purchases, extraction, the CRISPR edits targeting regulatory regions, and the insertion of synthetic promoter sequences. She showed them Gen1 data, then Gen2 data, and finally, the genetic analyses that proved the mechanisms.
A grandmotherly professor who reminded her a little of the original oracle in The Matrix leaned forward. “Your promoter sequences delay differentiation. What’s to prevent that delay from causing developmental issues later?”
“Excellent question.” Emmy pulled up developmental tracking charts.
“I monitored Gen1 rabbits for four months before breeding. All physiological markers were normal. Gen2 kits are currently at three weeks and showing typical development. Long-term study is needed, but preliminary data suggests no adverse effects.”
The tweed professor frowned at her slides. “You’re claiming you’ve solved a fundamental problem in hybrid genetics with eight original rabbits and a few gene edits?”
“I’m claiming I’ve identified the mechanism and proven the concept in a controlled model system,” Emmy corrected.
“The regulatory buffer sequences work. The timing synchronization is successful. This approach should be replicable for rabbits, and is theoretically applicable to other species with similar timing mismatches.”
“Theoretically.”
“Yes. Further research is needed. But the foundation is solid.”
He grunted, not quite convinced but unable to poke a hole in her logic.
The committee questioned her for another forty minutes — pressing on sample sizes, statistical significance, and alternative explanations for her results.
Emmy answered each question with data, with careful reasoning, and with the confidence of someone who’d lived and breathed this research for months.
Finally, the tweed asshole gave her a fake smile and told her, “I believe we have sufficient information, Ms. Drake. Please step outside while we deliberate.”
Emmy stepped into the hallway to find Spence waiting, and she immediately went into his arms and let him just hold her.
You heard?
Every word. Fucking asshole in charge, but you did awesome.
And so they waited in the hallway, Emmy alternating between pacing and forcing herself to be still.
Seventeen minutes later, the door opened.
“Ms. Drake,” Professor Chen said formally. “Please come in.”
Emmy’s heart hammered as she stepped back into the room.
The grandmotherly professor spoke first. “Your research is exceptional. The methodology is sound, the data compelling, and the implications significant. We have some suggestions for your final written thesis, but overall, we’re very impressed.”
“I still think your sample size is small,” the tweed professor grumbled. “But the work is solid. You’ve proven your hypothesis.”
Professor Chen’s smile was warm. “Congratulations, Ms. Drake. Your defense is approved. You’ve earned your master’s degree.”
The words didn’t process immediately. Emmy stood there, blinking, trying to make sense of what she’d just heard.
“Thank you,” she finally managed. “Thank you so much.”
“You earned it,” the grandmotherly professor told her. “And I can’t wait to see where you go from here.”
Emmy collected her things and walked out of the building in a daze, Spence by her side, her phone in her hand.
Zander answered on the first ring.
“I can feel your surprise and shock, but you’re the only one surprised. The rest of us knew you’d do it. Congratulations, little dragon.”
Through the bond, she felt his satisfaction, his pride, and his fierce love.
“Spence wants to take me for a steak dinner, so it might be a little while before we’re home.”
“Yes, go celebrate, absolutely — and then we can celebrate again when you get home.”
“She was brilliant,” Spence said, knowing Zander would hear.
“Of course she was. She’s always brilliant.”
Emmy stepped from the shade into the sunshine and let the August sun warm her face. Her men were holding her steady, even when her own emotions threatened to overwhelm.
She’d done it. She’d simultaneously changed the rules of nature and proven she was more than just the Dragon King’s screw-up oldest daughter.
And that reminded her that she should call her mother, but that could wait until they got into the car.
Because she danced all the way to the parking lot.
Spence opened the SUV door for her, and she scooted across the back seat so he could follow her in.
Once they were moving, he leaned in close, his voice in that silky, velvet register he used only when he was already halfway into submission. “I have something for you, Ma’am.”
He reached into the back seat and retrieved a small black gift bag. From it he pulled a folded length of fabric, which he opened to show a flowing midnight black skirt.
“Will you wear it for me?” he asked, voice quiet and earnest. “No panties. Just the skirt. Please.”
She remembered Seattle, and her clit gave a sudden, hungry throb.
The two had flown down for a live production of Cats , and she hadn’t known until they were seated that Spence had purchased box seats.
Seats with heavy velvet curtains behind them.
Spence on his knees between her legs, head under her skirt, tongue slow and worshipful while the orchestra swelled and the performers sang about memory.
She’d come so many times she’d lost count — silent, shuddering, fingers knotted in his hair to keep from crying out.
Then, beside her during the second act, his hand working her, fingers curling inside. He’d timed her orgasms to the crescendos, ruthless and precise, never once breaking his perfect, attentive posture.
When she’d set the rules for him to find ways to make her come in public, she’d laid out the dreadful consequences he’d undergo if anyone noticed what he was doing.
This didn’t include her fucking up and making noises — that would be on her.
But if he brought attention to them, he’d be punished without mercy.
But he’d been flawless, and no one had noticed.
Now, sitting in the passenger seat of the SUV, driving through the university streets in full light, Emmy felt that same dark thrill coil low in her belly.
She took the skirt from him, slid it on, and then removed her slacks and underwear out from under the skirt.
And her boy folded her pants and put them into the bag, along with her undies.
Emmy cupped his cheek and kissed him, slow and claiming. You remember the rules?
Yes, Ma’am. His telepathic voice had the same hints of submission, and her clit throbbed a little more. Subtle. No one notices, or I pay with the kind of pain I can’t sink into and enjoy.
Her smile was wicked. Good boy. I’m already looking forward to dessert.
The ma?tre d’ recognized them the moment they stepped inside the restaurant, which of course was one owned by Zander. They were led through the dining room to the back, and Emmy smiled when she saw the corner booth in its own little niche.
She’d wondered how he was going to pull this off, and now she knew. He’d found a perfect pocket of privacy in a room full of strangers.
Emmy slid in first. Spence followed, settling beside her so their thighs pressed together under the table.
She felt the heat of him, the careful way he held himself, and his scent told her he was already hard, already aching.
Her clit throbbed again, insistent.
She leaned into his side, lips brushing his ear. “You have until the appetizers arrive to make me come the first time. If you succeed, perhaps I’ll allow you an orgasm once we’re home.”
Spence’s breath hitched. His hand found her thigh under the table, fingers sliding up the slit of the skirt with exquisite slowness.
Emmy smiled into the candlelight, pulse racing, body already humming.
Spence’s fingers found her with perfect, devastating precision, a whisper of pressure that made her breath catch. His other hand stayed visible on the table, relaxed, as he engaged the waiter in easy conversation about the wine list.
No one would ever know.
Emmy picked up her menu with nearly-steady hands, eyes scanning the page without seeing a single word, and thought about how far she’d come from that furious girl on a plane to Alaska.
She’d defended her thesis, changed the rules of nature, and found two men who loved her — all of her. Fire, chaos, and her many hungers.
Spence’s thumb circled, patient and relentless, and Emmy bit her lower lip to keep from gasping.
Best. Day. Ever.