4

His eyes narrowed, but he stayed still as I resumed cleaning his wounds. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I could feel the heat radiating from his skin, far hotter than any human's should be. His muscles rippled under my touch, and I cursed my traitorous body for noticing.

"You're not afraid," he observed after a few minutes of tense silence.

"I'm terrified," I corrected, not looking up from my work. "But you're not the first dangerous creature I've treated, and fear won't stop these wounds from killing you."

He grabbed my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Look at me."

I did, meeting those golden eyes that seemed to see right through me. Up close, I could see flecks of amber in them, like captured flames.

"What's your name?" he demanded.

I hesitantly answered, "Mirabelle. Most people call me Belle."

"Belle," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "I'm Roman Blackthorn, Alpha of the Shadowfang pack. And you, little healer, are either very brave or very foolish."

"Probably both," I admitted, pulling my wrist from his grip. "Now, are you done with the intimidation routine, or should I leave you to heal yourself?"

His lips twitched. "Continue."

I worked in silence after that, hyperaware of his eyes following my every move.

The wounds were deep, but his supernatural healing was already kicking in. Still, without treatment, they could be fatal even for a werewolf.

"These weren't made by normal wolves," I said finally, stitching a particularly nasty gash.

"No," he agreed darkly. "They weren't."

"Are they coming here?" I needed to know if my village was in danger.

He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. "Not if they believe I'm dead."

"Are they likely to believe that?"

His smile was all teeth. "They should. Their poison should have killed me hours ago."

I froze. "Poison?"

"Why do you think I couldn't heal properly?" He studied my face. "You can smell it, can't you? Most humans can't, but you're not quite normal, are you, Belle?"

I ignored the question, focusing instead on the implications of poison. That explained the weird smell I'd noticed, like rotting flowers. "Nightshade," I muttered. "Mixed with something else... wolfsbane?"

"Clever girl." His eyes were getting heavy, the poison clearly still in his system. "Perhaps you're worth keeping alive after all..."

"Charming." I drawled, reaching for my strongest antidote. "Try to stay conscious for a few more minutes. This is going to hurt like hell."

He caught my hand again, his grip weaker now. "Why are you helping me?"

I met his gaze steadily. "Because that's what healers do. Even for arrogant werewolves who think they can intimidate me in my own home."

He laughed weakly. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"

"Probably," I agreed, then jabbed the antidote into his neck before he could stop me.

His roar of pain shook the cottage walls.

I quickly pressed him down as he thrashed, praying the sedative I'd mixed in would work on a werewolf.

Gradually, his movements slowed, though his breathing remained ragged.

"Fucking hell" he gasped. "A little warning next time?"

"Would you have let me do it if I'd warned you?"

His eyes were clouding over, but he managed one last smirk. "No. Definitely trouble."

Then he was out cold, leaving me alone with an unconscious Alpha werewolf and about a thousand questions. I sank into my chair, finally letting my hands shake.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

Outside, I could hear the villagers whispering, no doubt wondering about my mysterious patient.

I knew I should be more worried about having a werewolf – an Alpha, no less – in my home. But something about him intrigued me, despite my better judgment.

"You better be worth all this trouble, Roman Blackthorn." I muttered, settling in for a long night of observation.

I had no idea then just how much trouble he would truly turn out to be.