I wheeled myself closer as Dr. Teller gestured for Connor to sit on the examination table. I positioned my chair so our shoulders were touching, offering silent support as Teller prepared his tools.
"This will be cold," Teller warned as he swabbed Connor's inner arm with antiseptic. The sharp medicinal smell filled theair, reminding me uncomfortably of hospitals and the months after my accident.
Connor's free hand clenched into a fist at his side, and without thinking, I reached out to cover it with my own. His eyes met mine, surprise flickering briefly before his fingers uncurled, accepting the comfort I offered.
Teller picked up what looked like a specialized syringe, and my stomach tightened. "This is just the local anesthetic," he assured us, noticing my reaction. "You'll feel a small pinch, Connor, and then numbness."
Connor nodded, his eyes fixed determinedly on a point on the far wall as Teller administered the injection. His hand tightened momentarily in mine, then relaxed as the anesthetic took effect.
"Good," Teller murmured, setting aside the syringe and picking up a small scalpel. "Now for the incision."
The moment the blade touched Connor's skin, something primal and protective roared to life inside me. I watched as a thin line of red appeared on Connor's arm, and before I could stop myself, I barked out, "What are you doing?"
Teller paused, looking at me with professional patience. "Making the necessary incision to insert the tracker, Julian. The area is completely numb. Connor can't feel a thing."
My rational mind understood this, but it did nothing to quell the rage building in my chest at the sight of Connor's blood, at the clinical way Teller was cutting into the man who had become so unexpectedly important to me.
"It's okay," Connor said softly, surprising me again by becoming the reassuring one. "I really can't feel anything."
I forced myself to nod, to loosen my white-knuckled grip on the armrests of my wheelchair. Still, I couldn't take my eyes off the procedure, watching with clenched jaw as Teller used a specialized tool to create a small pocket beneath Connor's skin.
The tracker itself was deceptively small—a smooth, pill-shaped object that gleamed under the bright lab lights. Teller picked it up with sterile forceps, showing it to Connor briefly before positioning it at the incision site.
"This will take just a moment," he said, his focus entirely on his work as he slid the tracker beneath Connor's skin.
I watched Connor's face rather than the procedure, searching for any sign of pain or distress. But his expression remained determinedly neutral, though I could see the effort it cost him in the tightness around his eyes, the slight paleness of his lips.
My own body was rigid with tension, every protective instinct screaming at me to stop this, to whisk Connor away somewhere safe where he wouldn't need trackers or security or constant vigilance.
But there was nowhere safe enough, not with Harris hunting him. Not with his own family willing to sell him to the highest bidder.
"There we go," Teller said finally, setting aside his tools and reaching for the butterfly bandage. "All done."
I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding as Teller sealed the small incision and wiped away the traces of blood. The entire procedure had taken less than five minutes, but it had felt like hours.
All that remained was a small white bandage on Connor's inner arm, the only visible evidence of the technology now embedded beneath his skin.
"The tracker is activated and functioning perfectly," Jake announced from a nearby computer terminal. "Signal is clear and strong."
Connor looked down at the bandage, then up at me with an unreadable expression. "I guess this makes me officially yours now, doesn't it? Property of Julian Montgomery, if found please return."
The attempt at humor couldn't quite mask the vulnerability underneath. I reached out, my fingers gently touching the skin beside the bandage, creating a connection that felt more significant than the technological one we'd just established.
"Not property," I said firmly, meeting his eyes. "Never that."
Connor held my gaze for a long moment, searching for something in my expression. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him, because his shoulders relaxed slightly, some of the tension draining away.
"Well," he said, rolling his sleeve back down carefully. "One down, one to go. Your turn, Mr. Montgomery."
I blinked in surprise. "My turn?"
"If I'm getting tracked, you are too," Connor said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he pushed my wheelchair toward the stool Teller was now preparing. "Equality in marriage and all that."
Our eyes met, and I saw the fear he was trying so hard to hide—not fear for himself, but for me.
Connor held up his arm after the procedure, the small white bandage stark against his skin. "There, see? Easy peasy," he said with forced lightness. But I caught the way his other hand trembled slightly against his thigh, the subtle tells of stress that I'd somehow learned to read in the short time we'd been together.
When had I become so attuned to this man I barely knew? When had his pain started to feel like my own?
