Page 65 of What a Wolf's Heart Decides

Ah, she was going to be a difficult patient. Already has been, he mentally corrected. He put on his best doctor voice—the reasonable tone he used with troublemakers who tried skipping their medication or signing themselves out of the hospital early. “Yes. Mostly. But head injuries are a funny thing. Unpredictable, even in wolves. I’d like to observe you for a few hours.”

She looked away, her gaze on the windshield and the garage shelving beyond it. Even so, the dip in her brows was still visible.

Shit. What a choice of words. She was probably thinking he’d already “observed” her enough. The best thing he could do was go inside and book her a flight to New York. Maybe Joel could drive her to Seattle tonight. She could stay in a hotel until morning. It was far from ideal, given her injury. But he could work around it. He kept a few cell phones in his office for emergencies. He could give her one and then call her once an hour, just to check in and see how she was feeling. If she slurred her words or didn’t pick up, he’d have Joel nearby to—

“Okay,” she said, swinging her head toward him. “I’ll agree to that.”

He bit back the concessions he’d been about to make. Maybe she wasn’t going to be a difficult patient, after all. As a doctor, he’d take whatever cooperation he could get.

“On one condition,” she added.

In his mind, his wolf lifted its head, its curiosity piqued by the prospect of another challenge.

Bard pushed the wolf back. The beast might be interested in playing games, but he wasn’t. “Name it,” he told her.

“I want to check on Ben.”

His wolf roared to the surface, the force of the beast’s ire so great Bard’s fangs threatened to punch through his gums. He kept his head averted, for once grateful for the eye patch that prevented her from seeing his full expression—or his good eye, which was probably wolf blue ahead of the Turn.

Turn. Holy fuck, the wolf was trying to snap its restraints. As teens, werewolves learned to keep their inner beasts on a sort of metaphysical leash. Otherwise, the wolf could take over at inconvenient moments. Every werewolf had certain triggers—hunger, anger, strong emotions. Hell, some wolves had a hard time keeping it together in traffic jams.

But Bard’s wolf was a placid creature. For an Alpha, his beast was unusually pliant.

Until now.

Head down, he spoke directly to the beast. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Rusty as he was, the effort of speaking mind-to-mind with his wolf created an instant ache in his temples. His whole body tensed, his muscles taut as he struggled to keep the beast from forcing a Turn.

The wolf ignored him, its focus on Haley. Anger ran hot in its blood, and it sent an image of open jaws and elongated fangs.

“Stop it.”

“Bard?” There was movement to his right. She must have leaned toward him.

He forced the beast to recede—or tried to. Normally content to stay in the background, the creature fought him, struggling to surface and tip the balance from man to wolf. Bard clenched his jaw. The muscles in his left thigh spasmed, and pain screamed up his leg and into his hip. A whimper threatened to escape his lips.

He ground his teeth together.

More movement, then pressure on his arm.

And warmth.

He turned his head. Her light brown hair swung into his vision. And there was her hand, her fingers curled around his forearm just under his elbow.

The beast quieted. The pressure in Bard’s gums faded. In his mind, the wolf lowered its head, ceding control.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Bard’s voice came out breathless and shaking. He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.” Just a piss poor excuse for an Alpha.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Is it your leg?”

He jerked his head up, forgetting about hiding his face as he met her eyes. “What?”

Something in his stare must have caught her off guard, because she pulled her hand back and withdrew. “Sorry.” She bit her lower lip—just for a second, but it drew his gaze like a lodestone. She licked the spot she’d bitten.

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