They took the girl to the settlement's infirmary. She was admitted into a private room, becoming the only patient in the building save for a few coming and going for minor medicines. The place is rarely put to use, considering that werewolves require minimal care and humans are rarely permitted inside of the reservation.

Now she lies in a hospital bed of white, appearing more like a fallen angel than what she already had. She's clothed now at least, clad in an olive sweatshirt and black joggers which Delano had been sent to retrieve from the village's shopping center.

Isaac had dressed her himself: for whatever reason, his gut didn't trust anyone else to. Despite having carried her back to civilization whilst she was stark naked, he had managed to keep her covered from anyone else's eyes.

Besides allowing the doctor to hook up an IV and check her vitals, Isaac has been the only one to touch her. For the same instinctive reason that he's never left her bedside, he feels the need to keep it that way.

He sits there, in a wooden chair he'd pulled up, watching her resting face and listening to her peaceful breathing. Her complexion is still too pale for comfort, but hearing the doctor say that she bears no injuries brought Isaac a greater relief than imaginable.

Though she has no lethal issues, the question is still out as to what exactly her condition is. Extensive tests were ran on her, and although she's very obviously comatose, she isn't in a coma.

The not knowing is what's driving Isaac insane.

It's been three hours since he had found her, and in those three hours he's noticed himself acting out of character. Why does he care so much about what happens to this girl or her wellbeing? She isn't a member of the Lake Louise settlement, therefore he has no reason to care.

As the master of the reservation, he oversees everything that happens amongst his people. Nothing occurs in Lake Louise without Isaac knowing about it, and no harm comes to any werewolf without him delivering a punishment. His job is to protect and preserve his kind, so he does.

But this girl isn't a werewolf. She's a human—or so he assumes. She doesn't have a human's scent, exactly, but she surely doesn't have a werewolf's, either. In fact, she doesn't have a scent at all. All she smells like is the wild daffodils he'd found her lying in.

What the hell are you doing? Isaac wonders to himself as he watches over the seemingly sleeping girl. He doesn't like the change in his demeanor, but it's also too strong to fight.

Two quick warning knocks come from the door before it opens, revealing Mason on the other side. Isaac's head snaps up, his posture straightening at someone else's presence.

"I thought I'd find you here," Mason says, sauntering in, but keeping a healthy distance from the bed. His eyes flick between the unconscious girl and his worn looking friend.

"Why are you still here?" He asks. "Doc said there's nothing wrong with her. Why are you so worried?"

Isaac shrugs, mindlessly rising from his seat in order to stand by the bed, at the corner nearest to Mason.

He trusts him. They've been close friends for years now. So why is his body putting itself between him and the mysterious girl?

Mason seems to notice it as well, raising an eyebrow.

"You know that whole myth about soulmates is just that: a myth. Right?" Mason asks, studying Isaac with a concerned gaze.

"I'm aware," Isaac grumbles, a bit of a snap to his tone. "I never said anything about soulmates."

"So what are you doing?" Mason flicks his wrist at the bed behind his friend, gesturing to the two of them. "You've only just encountered her this morning and you're already acting attached. She's a human, I. Not a stray puppy." But of course, Mason hasn't been close enough to her to realize that she isn't a human at all.

Isaac doesn't have an excuse for his behavior, nor does he have an argument. Perhaps he is acting attached. Perhaps he is attached. But he can't find the will not to be.

"I don't know," he admits. "I feel responsible for her. Like she was left there for me to find. Like somebody did this on purpose."

Mason's eyes widen, scoffing. "You think it's foul play? There was no sign or scent of anybody else having been around that clearing. Besides, nobody's gonna abandon a body in the forest without harming it first."

Isaac looks back at the girl, gazing at her silky dark hair and defined jawline. "Then why was she there? And why the hell did I know it? This shit doesn't just happen. Something's going on. Somebody left her there and when I fucking find them—"

He cuts himself off, unwilling to finish the sentence out loud. At least he can play out the fantasies in his head, of what will happen when he gets his hands on the bastard...

He may not understand anything about this situation—about how and why the girl was there, or the strange, controlling feelings he's experiencing—but he can certainly understand anger and revenge.

"Take a party up there," Isaac orders suddenly, "I want every square meter scoured and peeled time and time again until something else is discovered. They can't deposit a body without leaving evidence, and I want that evidence found."

Mason nods, knowing not to question Isaac, especially when his tone is as rock solid as it is now.

"If there's anything up there, we'll find it," he assures. He pivots and heads for the door, closing it lightly behind him.

Alone again, Isaac begins pacing the room, running a rugged hand through his inky hair. With every minute that passes in which she's not awake, he feels himself cracking a little more on the inside. His nerves are frayed, that much is undeniable.

If there's nothing wrong with her, why isn't she waking up? That's the question that keeps eating at him, hollowing out his insides like a pitted fruit. Why was she there? Where did she come from? How did she get there? Nothing about it makes sense, and Isaac detests every hidden answer, if any answers even exist.

Two subtle warning knocks come from the door again, except this time it isn't Mason. It's the doctor, walking in carrying a clipboard of papers.

Doctor Illana Petroves is the only medical professional the reservation has, and the only one they need. Isaac respects her more than he does most people, likely because she's been known to hold her ground like a tiger backed into a corner. Having come from a part of Russia where the extermination of werewolves was recognized as a saint's work, her exterior is far from soft. She came to Lake Louise as a refugee three years ago, with scars running down her face as proof of what she'd escaped.

"All tests show her as being in perfect health," Illana says, her accent obvious as she flips through her papers. "Her vitals are strong, her fluids replenished, and she hasn't lost any blood. Her breathing is sufficient and nothing is injured, inside or out."

Looking up from her clipboard, she looks to Isaac to gauge a reaction. He's stopped his pacing, having returned to the bedside, fingers gripping the rail.

"Then why is she unconscious?" He asks, the irritation rising in his chest.

"It could be anything, really. Nothing life threatening." Illana clicks her pen thoughtlessly, resting the board against her hip. "I've seen patients shutdown after witnessing a trauma before. But typically the body is tense then. She is limp."

There's a pause. More clicking of Illana's pen, more harsh rubbing of Isaac's palms on his face.

"How much longer?" Isaac finally asks.

"I suspect she'll wake up from any minute now to another three hours," Illana replies. "Any longer than that would be coma-like, and she isn't in a coma. If you would like, you can take her to a home where she may feel more comfortable."

"I'll take her to mine." He says the words without having thought about them first.

"I expect she'll be distressed when she awakens," she says. "When she does, be sure to remain calm around her. Explain things to her. We don't know what she last saw before she was brought here."

Isaac nods, emitting a low hum in his throat.

The girl's colorless, elegant hand is resting on the bed near her hip. He studies it, the way there are subtle dips between her knuckles, how her slender fingers are slightly curled, and how the shape of the bones are visible beneath the skin.

He can't help himself. Something comes over him: a desire to touch her, a need to let her know he's there.

It looks like a paradox: Isaac Bête-noire—a boy so strapping and cold, so scarred and healed over—reaching down to hold a single one of her limp fingers in his brutish hand. The action is so gentle, and so unlike him.

Illana witnesses this, but Isaac doesn't notice, nor does he notice the tinge of a soft smile forming on the doctor's face.

"I'll inform the front desk of her discharge," she says, her shoes padding toward the door, "You may take her whenever you're ready."

She pauses in the doorway. "You know she isn't one of us. Right?"

Isaac's response is delayed, as though he's barely listening. When he finally answers, he's still gazing at the girl rather than who he's speaking to.

"Of course." His voice comes out deep and hard, very distinctive of himself.

| | |

As Isaac carried the girl up the village street, he earned a myriad of looks, some shocked, others confused. All it took to avert the staring bystanders' gazes, however, was a look of his own.

He dares them to oppose him. The smallest of reasons is all he would need to fly off the handle, given the onslaught of stress he's dealt with since before dawn. He knows he wouldn't hesitate to react—or to demonstrate why the rumors about him say what they do—but he's reluctant to now.

Relieving his aggression on someone who may or may not deserve it would mean putting down the girl's delicate body, which is something he refuses to do.

As his long strides carry them over the trail that leads to his lakeside chateau, they crest at the top of the bank which contains beautiful, blue Lake Louise. The sunlight sparkles as it hits the surface of the water, creating a shimmering effect until it touches the mountains in the distance.

As Isaac walks the dirt trail, his chateau in sight now, his heart begins beating like a base drum at what he hears.

It's a small, pitiful sound, but it nearly causes Isaac to scream out of joy. It comes from the girl in his arms, a tiny little huffy exhale from her nose as, for the first time, an expression starts to form on her unconscious face, her brow furrowing.

"I've got you," Isaac murmurs to her subconsciously, almost as though he's thinking to himself rather than talking to her. "You're safe. You can wake up."