The Wolf Within Her

Isolde

Valentine's Day, 2:13 AM. The emergency room at Crescent Bay General Hospital was eerily quiet. I'd been staring at the same patient chart for ten minutes, my mind drifting despite my best efforts to stay focused. This marked my third consecutive Valentine's night shift—not out of extraordinary dedication to medicine, but because I genuinely had nowhere else to be.

"Another Valentine's flying solo, Dr. Beck?" My colleague Kacy's voice broke through my thoughts as she organized supplies at the station across from me.

I shrugged, setting down the chart. "Giving the coupled-up staff their romantic evenings. It's not like I had plans anyway."

"Unbelievable." Kacy shook her head, red curls bouncing beneath her cap. "A girl who looks like you—straight out of a Barbie commercial with those big gray-blue eyes and that porcelain skin—spending Valentine's alone." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Half the male doctors here would drop everything for a date with you."

"They'd quickly lose interest if they knew my idea of a perfect evening is collapsing into bed after an eighty-hour work week," I replied, allowing myself a small smile. My fingers absently traced the embroidered name on my coat: Dr. Isolde Beck.

"What about that guy you were seeing? The one from Memorial Hospital?" Kacy asked, typing patient data into the computer.

"Malcolm." Even saying his name felt awkward now. "Dr. Pratt. We're... technically still dating, I suppose. Though it's been two weeks since I've heard from him. No calls, no texts. Just vanished." I frowned. "Our relationship is basically on life support, and I'm considering calling time of death."

Kacy's sympathetic look morphed into a grimace. "Men. They always—"

The automatic doors to the ER burst open with a hydraulic hiss, cutting her off mid-sentence. A commotion of deep voices and hurried footsteps filled the previously quiet space. Four—no, five—tall men rushed in, supporting another man who was slumped between them, blood soaking through his jacket.

"We need a doctor!" One of them called out, his voice resonating through the empty waiting area.

I switched into professional mode instantly, moving forward with practiced efficiency. "I'm Dr. Beck. What happened?"

The group before me was intimidating—all well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothes. They carried themselves with an almost predatory awareness, eyes constantly scanning the room. My first instinct was to wonder if they were gang members, but something about them felt different—more disciplined, more dangerous.

The injured man they supported was the largest of them all—maybe 6'3"—with blood seeping through a dark jacket pressed against his left side. His face was contorted in pain, but even then, I could tell he was strikingly handsome.

"Animal attack in the north woods," a blond man answered tersely, his posture tense as he supported most of the injured man's weight. "Something got him pretty good."

I quickly assessed the scene, noting that several others had minor scrapes and tears in their clothing, but nothing compared to their friend's injuries.

"Bring him to Trauma One," I directed, gesturing down the hall. "Kacy, prepare a suture kit and blood transfusion setup." I turned back to the men. "How long ago did this happen?"

"About forty minutes," the blond man replied as they maneuvered toward the exam room. "We came straight here."

Inside Trauma One, they helped the injured man onto the table. The room suddenly felt claustrophobic with so many large men crowded around. I pulled on gloves and approached, carefully moving the blood-soaked jacket aside to examine the wound.

"Name and any known allergies?" I asked, keeping my voice calm and authoritative.

"Dorian Hawke. No allergies," the blond man answered, hovering uncomfortably close.

What I saw beneath the jacket made my breath catch. Three parallel gashes ran across his left abdomen, deep enough that I could see muscle tissue. The wounds were unusual—not like knife cuts or typical animal bites I'd seen. They resembled massive claw marks, as if from an impossibly large predator.

"What kind of animal did this? A bear?" I asked, already reaching for antiseptic.

The men exchanged glances but offered no clear answer.

"Some kind of predator," the blond man finally said. "It was dark. We didn't get a good look."

I became acutely aware that the room was overcrowded with these intimidating men, all watching my every move. Their presence was making it difficult to work effectively.

"I need everyone except one person to leave the room," I stated firmly, meeting the blond man's eyes without flinching. "I need space to work."

None of them moved. They continued standing there, exchanging glances with each other.

Suddenly, the injured man—Dorian—opened his eyes. Despite his obvious pain, his gaze was sharp and commanding. His eyes were an unusual amber color, almost golden in the bright hospital lights.

"All of you. Out." His voice was surprisingly steady and carried unmistakable authority.

To my amazement, they immediately complied, filing out without argument. The blond man hesitated at the door, but a look from Dorian sent him out too, leaving us alone.

"Thank you," I said, turning my attention back to his wounds. "These need immediate cleaning and suturing. I'll administer local anesthesia first."

"Do what you need to," he replied, his voice deep and controlled despite his condition.

I worked methodically, cleaning the wounds and assessing the damage. As I cleared away the blood, I noticed something strange—the edges of the wounds seemed to be closing slightly, healing at a rate that should be impossible. I blinked, wondering if my exhaustion was causing me to see things.

"These cuts are unusual," I commented professionally. "Not consistent with any local wildlife I'm familiar with. The parallel pattern suggests a large predator with significant claw size."

Dorian watched me intently but offered no explanation. I continued working, focusing on my task with practiced precision. Throughout the procedure, he barely flinched, even when I knew the local anesthetic couldn't be blocking all the pain.

As I finished the last suture, I finally allowed myself to really look at his face. Even covered in dirt and sweat, he was handsome in a rugged, almost predatory way. Strong jawline, high cheekbones, and those unusual amber eyes that seemed to see right through me.

"Your wounds are healing remarkably fast," I observed, unable to contain my medical curiosity. "Fascinatingly so. Are you on any experimental treatments? Some kind of regenerative therapy?"

A guarded expression crossed his face. "I work at Crescent Bay Research Institute. Biological research division."

"You're a researcher?" I asked, surprised.

"Among other things," he replied cryptically. "Family business obligations take up much of my time lately."

I disposed of my gloves and began documenting his case. "Well, Mr. Hawke, you should remain under observation for at least—"

"Dorian, please," he interrupted.

"Dorian," I corrected myself. "You've lost a significant amount of blood. I'm concerned about—"

He suddenly sat up with unexpected ease, barely showing discomfort from wounds that should have left him bedridden. "You're very skilled, Doctor. Where did you train?"

"Johns Hopkins," I answered automatically, then frowned. "But you should really lie back down. Those sutures—"

"Isolde," he read from my name tag. "An unusual name. Old world."

"It was my grandmother's," I replied, then firmly placed my hand on his shoulder. "Please lie down. You're not in condition to—"

He looked directly into my eyes, his gaze intensifying in a strange way. I felt an odd pressure in my mind, like someone pushing against a door. Then the sensation vanished, and Dorian looked... surprised.

He tried again, his eyes locked on mine more intently. Again I felt that strange push, and again it slipped away without effect. Now he looked genuinely shocked.

"Fascinating," he murmured, studying me with newfound interest.

"What is?" I asked, confused by his behavior.

Instead of answering, he said something that made me question his mental state: "Marry me."

I stared at him, certain I'd misheard. "Excuse me?"

"I need a wife," he stated matter-of-factly. "And you appear to be an ideal candidate."