If the corridors had impressed Connor, the lab left him speechless. The vast space stretched before us, divided into workstations filled with equipment that would make most research hospitals envious. Bright lights reflected off stainless steel surfaces, illuminating workbenches where technicians in white coats moved with practiced efficiency.
One corner housed what looked like a small medical suite—examination table, monitoring equipment, and various instruments arranged with surgical precision.
My stomach tightened at the sight. The tracker had been my idea, a necessary precaution, but seeing the clinical setup made it suddenly real in a way that discussions and plans hadn't.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Jake said, misinterpreting Connor's silence for awe rather than the apprehension I could read in the tight line of his shoulders.
Connor nodded, his eyes lingering on the medical area. "Very... thorough."
I reached for his hand again, drawing his attention back to me. "We can go if you want to," I said quietly, though we bothknew it wasn't true. Not with Harris hunting him. Not with what we now knew about what happened to the young men who disappeared into Harris's possession.
Connor's eyes met mine, and I saw the moment he steeled himself, squaring his shoulders slightly. "No, we can stay." He glanced around the lab once more, then back to me with a forced smile. "Besides, I've always wanted to be part of a spy thriller. Just missing the martini and tuxedo."
I squeezed his hand, grateful for his attempt at humor even as I worried about what came next. "One thing at a time."
Jake led us toward the medical area, where a man in a white lab coat looked up from a computer screen. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, his lab coat impeccably pressed, and when he smiled, the expression was professional but warm.
"Julian," he said, his eyes briefly dropping to my wheelchair before returning to my face. "Good to see you mobile. It's been a while."
I nodded, memories of my last visit to this lab flashing through my mind—the experimental treatments after my accident, the pain, the desperate hope followed by crushing disappointment. Dr. Norris Teller had been there through all of it.
"Norris," I acknowledged. "Thank you for agreeing to this on such short notice." I turned slightly, pulling Connor forward. "This is Connor Montgomery, my husband. Connor, this is Dr. Norris Teller, Jake's head of biomedical research and an old friend from my university days."
Connor extended his hand, and I watched carefully as Norris shook it, his clinical gaze assessing even as he maintained his professional smile.
"Pleasure to meet you," Norris said. "Julian didn't mention he'd gotten married when he called about the tracker. Congratulations are in order, I suppose."
I saw the moment Connor's expression shifted from nervous to suspicious, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Tracker?" he repeated, turning to look at me. "What tracker?"
"The subcutaneous GPS tracker is one of Jake's more innovative designs," I explained, watching Connor's face carefully as understanding dawned. "It can pinpoint your location within a five-hundred-mile radius if Harris or your family ever managed to—" I hesitated, unwilling to voice the scenario that haunted my nightmares. "If they ever try to take you again."
Connor stared at me, suspicion warring with hurt in his eyes. "And you didn't think to mention this before we got here?"
The accusation stung, partly because it was justified. I should have prepared him, explained everything during the elevator ride. But with everything that had happened—the confrontation with his family, the chase through the city—there hadn't seemed to be a right moment.
Or perhaps I'd been afraid he'd say no.
Jake stepped in, his business voice taking over. "The tracker is roughly the size of a vitamin capsule. Once implanted, it's virtually undetectable unless you know exactly where to look. It transmits not just location data, but vital signs—heart rate, blood pressure, temperature. If you were in distress, we'd know immediately."
Connor's gaze shifted between Jake and me, his expression unreadable. "So you want to put this... thing inside me? Like I'm some kind of pet that might run away?"
"No," I said sharply, reaching for his hand. "Like you're someone valuable who's being hunted by a dangerous predator."
Connor's face paled slightly, the reality of his situation hitting home once again. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing visibly as he glanced at the medical area.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice smaller than I'd ever heard it.
Dr. Teller stepped forward, his manner professional and reassuring. "The procedure is minimally invasive. Local anesthetic first, then a small incision—less than a centimeter. The tracker is inserted using a specialized tool, and the incision is closed with a butterfly bandage. Most patients report nothing more than mild discomfort, similar to getting a vaccination."
Connor nodded, processing this information. I could almost see his mind working, weighing the invasion of privacy against his safety.
I held my breath, suddenly unsure what I would do if he refused. I couldn't force this on him—wouldn't force this on him—but the thought of him vulnerable and unprotected, made my chest constrict painfully.
Then Connor did what Connor always seemed to do—he surprised me. Straightening his shoulders, he pulled off his jacket and handed it to me, then rolled up his sleeve with forced nonchalance.
"Let's get chipped like the family dog, then," he said, his tone deliberately light despite the tension I could see in every line of his body.
Pride and something deeper, something I wasn't ready to name, surged through me. This young man, who had every reason to run from more people trying to control his life, was choosing to trust me, choosing to believe that my protection wasn't another form of a cage.
