How to Run with a Naked Werewolf Read Free Page B

the valley for such an extended period of time that I hadn’t met him in the four years I lived there? Not possible.
    And frankly, none of this mattered, because I wasn’t planning on sticking around long enough for getting to know you conversations.
    I sighed. Werewolf or not, I couldn’t let him sleep with bloody, unclean wounds. I searched through the bag and found bandages, tape, Bactine, and hydrogen peroxide. The bathroom was surprisingly clean, which, sadly, was turning out to be the highlight of my day. I ran a washcloth under a warm tap and used it to wipe away the brownish blood from his skin, noting the wound was now about the size of a dime. Worried that it was too deep to use the Bactine, I irrigated itwith the peroxide, catching the runoff with a towel. He hissed, arching off the bed, but he ultimately slumped back into unconsciousness. Just to be safe, I sprayed the wound with Bactine and bandaged him up.
    It had taken me some time to get used to werewolf physiology and adjust my medical training to it. While the spontaneous-healing thing made my position as pack doctor easier, it also meant that untreated broken bones could set in bad positions. Wounded skin could heal over foreign matter and dirt, which led to infections.
    Beyond wound care, my chief responsibility had been monitoring and faking state-sanctioned paperwork for as many as a dozen pregnancies at a time. Werewolves were ridiculously fertile. Maggie also appointed me the “supervisor” of the pack’s seniors, who, although they aged a bit more slowly than the average human, were just as susceptible to the typical blood-pressure and joint problems associated with getting old. But they were far less open to accepting these issues, considering them “human problems.” For one thing, werewolf metabolism burned through calories so quickly that it was damn near impossible to monitor their diets, cholesterol, or salt. Try telling a seventy-year-old who can eat three whole fried chickens in one sitting that he needs to watch his triglycerides. The reaction will be swift and hilarious, and then he will go fetch his friends to tell them what the funny new doctor said.
    The first time there was an emergency with the pack, I’d panicked. It was just claw marks from an unfriendly interaction between Maggie’s lovable idiot cousin Samson and a grizzly. Frankly, he could have healed up onhis own within twenty-four hours, but a few stitches moved the process along faster. Samson’s back looked as if he’d made out with Freddy Krueger, and the injuries were so extensive I froze. I couldn’t seem to pick a location to insert the suture needle in his skin.
    And then, of course, Samson was himself.
    “Hey, Doc, stop staring at my ass and stitch me up,” he’d called over his shoulder.
    That had broken the ice and allowed me to relax and make the first stitch.
    Being able to practice again was a gift I couldn’t quite fathom. Before the valley, medicine had been something I’d had a certain knack for but not something I cared for passionately. I made a healthy salary, which I appreciated. I was good at putting patients at ease and had a talent for sorting through the mysteries of diagnostics. But I didn’t wake up in the morning and think, Oh, what a lucky girl am I!
    In the valley, I rejoiced in the birth of every cub, mourned every death, and felt fortunate to help my patients through every stage in between. Through the pack, I found my purpose. I was able to feel like myself again, without the risk of being discovered. I could feel as if I was putting the very expensive education my parents had helped fund to good use. I had a place of my own making, a community that I’d earned. I built a calm, competent exterior that didn’t garner me any close friendships but kept me on good terms with my neighbors. While the people who greeted me so cheerily each morning may not have known the real me, they appreciated the me they did know.
    Now that my time