Page 69 of Isabel and the Werewolf Beast

“I don’t know how you tapped into that much power, but you need to be careful around Isabel.”

“I’d kill myself before I ever harmed her.”

“See that you do otherwise I’ll do it for you.”

“All right, you two.” I sighed. “Lucian, let Dante inside his brother needs the infirmary and probably more blood.”

“Isabel, helping these werewolves is so wrong.”

“It doesn’t feel wrong. In fact, it’s the first thing that’s felt right ever since you turned me. I have a purpose now and not just balls, dancing, fancy objects, and fine clothes.” I placed my hand on Lucian’s shoulder. “Remember when I was human, and I was a nurse in the war, I helped people. It’s how you found me that night helping the woman who was attacked and left for dead.”

Lucian placed his hand on top of mine. “Of course, I remember. You were so full of compassion, and the scent of blood drew me.”

“You tried to help me heal that woman and then when she died, you turned me.”

Lucian turned his head. “Your thirst for revenge was lovely, dear. How could I not?”

“Besides that part of the story, it was helping the woman that brought us together.” I squeezed my fingers into his firm shoulder.

“There’s nothing wrong with the fancy stuff,” Maximus said walking into the foyer and interrupting my story.

“I never said there was, but there’s more to our immortal lives. More to any life.”

Lucian stepped aside and let Dante in through the door. Dante shut the door and flicked the lock. I dropped my hand from Lucian.

“It might be a good idea to lock your doors from now on,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

I didn’t bother telling him anyone who wasn’t human could break through a locked door with ease. If it gave him a small sense of protection, then I’d let him have it.

“You were a nurse?” Dante asked gathering me close to his warm body.

“I was during the war. Many women were.”

Lucian and Maximus’s footsteps echoed as they retreated deeper into the castle leaving me and Dante to talk as we walked to the infirmary. For me to reveal all of who I was to the man I loved.

“I was born in France in the early nineteen hundreds. As my parents Maurice and Rosalind told it, France suffered heavily after the first war. Lives were lost, veterans were disabled, and agricultural land was ruined. They rebuilt quickly though. We’re resilientpeople. We became world famous for our artists, musicians, and writers. Life became better while I was growing up, but then the Great Depression hit. Life went downhill, but that was nothing compared to the second war in 1939. You never comprehend the destruction of war until you’re standing in the middle of it.”

Dante’s arms tightened around my body offering me the comfort and courage to talk about the most difficult time of my life.

“My parents helped as many people flee the country as they could. I volunteered as a nurse to help the wounded. I quickly learned how to bandage bullet wounds… and more horrific injuries… I’d rather not remember.”

“Don’t then,” Dante said, rubbing a soothing hand up and down my back.

“One day…” I swallowed the thick lump in my throat. “While I was at the hospital, my parents were gunned down in their own home for trying to help someone escape.”

“Isabel, I’m so sorry,” Dante’s voice came out in a soft whisper caressing my bruised heart.

“When I came home from the hospital to get a few hours’ sleep, I found them on the floor of our kitchen. Blood, there was so much blood.” I lifted my chin and stared into his eyes. “I didn’t know it would be the start of my life with blood.”

“Is that the night you became a vampire?”

“Yes. I stumbled out onto the debris-ridden streets back to the hospital. I thought maybe if I went back to work and then came home again, I’d find it was all a bad dream. A nightmare inside the nightmare I was already living.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“There were nightmares for everyone. It was late when I returned to the hospital, dark. The woman’sscreams stopped me in my tracks, but then deep inside me, the rage at finding my parents dead surged to the surface. I’d seen so many people die. Some in my arms. And I wasn’t there for my parents, but I could be there for this woman. I rushed toward her screams that were fading each second and I found her in the gutter, bleeding from a stab wound, her dress torn and bloody, her skin pale beneath the gritty glow of the yellow street lamp. I tried to stop her bleeding, but there were so many stab wounds and I didn’t have enough hands.

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