Chapter 19

Noah's POV

The pounding on my front door jolted me from a deep sleep. I blinked at the glowing numbers of my bedside clock: 2:37 AM. Who the hell needed a doctor at this hour? And why couldn't they just call first?

I stumbled out of bed, grabbed my navy robe from the hook on the bathroom door, and shuffled toward the incessant knocking. The floorboards were cold against my bare feet, a sharp contrast to the warm cocoon of blankets I'd just abandoned.

"I'm coming!" I called out, my voice rough with sleep. "Hold your horses!"

The knocking stopped. I flipped on the porch light and opened the door, only to find myself face-to-face—or rather, face-to-chest—with a completely naked Ethan.

I instinctively stepped back, raising my hands. "Whoa there! Look, I'm flattered, but I don't swing that way. I mean, from a medical perspective, your physique is practically perfect, but that doesn't mean I want to—"

"Freya is dying," Ethan cut me off, his voice like gravel. "She needs treatment. Now."

My doctor brain kicked into gear instantly, sleep forgotten. "What happened?" I asked, already turning to gather supplies.

"Silver trap in the forest. Poisoned spikes. She's bleeding out."

I froze mid-step. "Silver poisoning? And she's still alive?" Silver combined with the right toxins could kill a werewolf in minutes. And Freya—with her pregnancy... My stomach clenched.

"How long ago?" I demanded, grabbing my emergency medical bag from the hall closet.

"Twenty minutes. Maybe less."

I nodded, mentally calculating what I'd need. "Any other symptoms besides the wounds? Convulsions? Hallucinations?"

"She shifted back to human form. Unconscious. Breathing shallow."

I rushed to my kitchen, unlocking a hidden compartment beneath the sink where I kept my supernatural medical supplies. The small wooden box contained vials of rare antidotes, including the silverfang extract that neutralized werewolf-specific poisons. Three years studying werewolf physiology in Europe hadn't been wasted.

I didn't press further, packing everything into my bag. "My car's out front. We can—"

"No." Ethan's voice was flat. "Too slow. Forest roads are impassable."

"Then how do you suggest we—"

Before I could finish my question, Ethan stepped back into my front yard and dropped to all fours. His body contorted, bones cracking and reshaping as silver-black fur erupted across his skin. The transformation was fluid, violent, and mesmerizing all at once—textbook Alpha shift. Where a naked man had stood seconds before, a massive wolf now loomed, easily the size of a small bear.

"Oh hell no," I muttered, realizing his intent. "There has to be another way to—"

The wolf moved faster than I could track. One moment I was standing in my doorway clutching my medical bag, the next I was tucked unceremoniously under Ethan's furry foreleg, my face pressed against his chest fur as he took off at a sprint.

"This is NOT what I signed up for when I took the supernatural medicine oath!" I yelled, my words lost in the wind as we tore through the sleeping town.

I clutched my medical bag with one hand and grabbed fistfuls of Ethan's fur with the other, trying not to think about how ridiculous I must look—a grown man in pajamas and a bathrobe, being carried like a football by a giant wolf. The world blurred past at a nauseating speed, buildings giving way to trees as we entered the forest.

Branches whipped past, sometimes close enough to scrape my exposed skin. I tucked my head down, cursing werewolves and their ridiculous methods of transportation. The jostling was so severe I worried about the glass vials in my bag breaking before we reached Freya.

When Ethan finally slowed, I was dizzy and disoriented, my stomach threatening rebellion. He set me down in a small clearing bathed in moonlight. My legs wobbled as I got my bearings, and I took several deep breaths to settle my nausea.

"Next time," I gasped, "I'm prescribing you a cell phone with GPS coordinates."

The wolf ignored me, padding toward a still form lying on a bed of moss. My professional focus returned instantly at the sight of Freya, naked and unconscious, her skin ghostly pale in the moonlight.

I knelt beside her, medical training overriding everything else. Three puncture wounds marked her side and thigh, the skin around them blackened and veined with blue-purple lines that spread outward like toxic spiderwebs. Classic silver poisoning, but worse than I'd seen before.

"This isn't standard silver," I murmured, opening my bag. "It's been alloyed with something else. And the poison..."

I leaned closer, sniffing carefully at the wounds. The acrid smell of wolfsbane was unmistakable, but there was something else—nightshade, and possibly hemlock. A deliberate, expertly crafted cocktail designed to kill werewolves slowly and painfully.

"Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing," I said, pulling on gloves and extracting a syringe of silverfang antidote. "This wasn't some hunter's random trap."

Ethan paced behind me, his massive form creating moonlight shadows that shifted across Freya's prone body. His low growls punctuated the night air, conveying his agitation better than words could have.

I worked methodically, first cleaning the wounds with a special solution to neutralize remaining silver particles. Freya's body twitched and tensed with pain even in unconsciousness, but what caught my attention was the way her arms remained curled protectively around her abdomen, even as I moved them to access the wound on her side.

Maternal instinct, active even in unconsciousness. I glanced at her face, noting the slight fullness that had developed since I'd last seen her. To anyone else, she might have just looked healthy, but to my trained eye, the signs of early pregnancy were becoming more evident.

I administered the antidote in three separate injections around the wound sites, then applied a poultice of herbs that would draw out the remaining poison. Throughout the procedure, I kept checking her vital signs, relieved to find her pulse strengthening incrementally.

"The moonstone helped," I observed, noticing the pendant around her neck that now glowed faintly. "It probably kept her alive until you found her."

Ethan's wolf form hovered close, occasionally nudging Freya's hand with his muzzle, his eyes never leaving her face. The intensity of his concern seemed at odds with what Freya had told me about their relationship, but I kept that observation to myself.

"She'll recover," I continued, covering her with the emergency thermal blanket from my bag. "The antidote is already working. The wounds will heal slowly—silver interferes with werewolf healing—but she should regain consciousness within an hour."

Ethan's wolf form nodded once, acknowledging my instructions.

I stood, brushing leaves from my knees, and surveyed the clearing. "Should I wait until she wakes up, or—"

Before I could finish, Ethan's massive form was beside me again, and I found myself once more tucked under his foreleg like an oversized puppy.

"Are you kidding me? Not again! Can't we try a different—"

My protests died in the wind as Ethan took off through the forest, retracing our path at the same breakneck speed.