Mated To Valentine
Then, after the twelfth failed hybrid, he exhales sharply and turns toward me.
His voice is eerily calm. "Why does it work for you?"
I don’t answer.
I mean it's damn obvious. I wasn't chemically transformed. The blood of my transformer that flows in my veins is over four hundred years old.
Why wouldn't it work with me?
He studies me for a moment, then smiles. It’s a slow, unsettling thing.
"We’ll figure it out," he murmurs. "One way or another."
They unstrap me eventually.
My arms are sore, my veins feel hollow, but I don’t let it show. I won’t give them that.