Isaac leads the girl downstairs to the main floor, where he takes her to one of the two dining rooms—the one meant for breakfast, where a table and six chairs are placed in front of a sliding glass door which shows the foliage outside. She sits down at the head of the table as he directs her to, settling herself into the large chair.

"What do you want to eat?" He asks, standing by to await her answer. "I'll make anything your heart desires."

She only shrugs, swallowing nervously.

"Mmm," he hums, "What about waffles?"

This time she nods quickly, making him laugh.

"Alright. Waffles it is. Blueberry, chocolate chip, or strawberry?"

She holds up three fingers, hoping he understands. To her surprise, he does.

"Strawberries. Got it."

With that he disappears through an archway which she assumes leads to the kitchen. Whilst he's gone, she does nothing but sit in the chair he'd put her in, soundlessly drumming her fingertips on the table. She looks out the window, already bored and with an urge to explore—but she doesn't want to test her limits. This isn't her house, nor does she even really know the owner. So she stays put, waiting impatiently for him to return.

When he does, it's carrying a plateful of stacked waffles in one hand and a bottle of syrup in the other. As soon as she smells the aroma, her stomach lets out another loud, angry growl.

He chuckles at that, eyes glistening. "Bon appétit," he says, placing her food down gently in front of her. "Use as much syrup as you want and if you need anything else just tell me."

| | |

As the girl begins eating—having drenched her plate in syrup prior to—Isaac can't help but to watch her. When he sat the food down in front of her, her eyes lit up as though she hadn't eaten for days.

It makes him wonder for how long she was laying in that field, unconscious and vulnerable. There was no morning dew on her, although it was on the flowers and grass around her, so at least she couldn't have laid there the entire night.

This then leads him to the thought of where she was in the moments before she was dumped there—except dumped isn't the right word. She was laid there carefully: her arm couldn't have conveniently covered her chest, nor could her thigh and hip be situated in a way to cover her crotch, had she just been tossed down. Someone had taken the time to place her like that. Which means whoever abandoned her must have some decency, though Isaac still refuses to grant them that.

Who's custody had she been in? He wonders. And how long until he can get his hands on them, if ever?

But he already asked her all of his questions, and she couldn't answer them, though that isn't her fault. It came as a cold shock and a hot anger at something—anything which wasn't the girl pressed against the headboard—when he realized she has no memory.

She remembers nothing—not even her name. And he so badly wants to know her name. He yearns for it, to say it on his tongue or to hear it to see if it truly matches the girl it was given to.

He already asked his questions, now it's time she has a chance to ask hers.

As she's eating, he leaves her in search of a notepad and a pen. When he returns to find her plate empty, he pushes it aside in order to lay the pad and pen in its place in front of her.

"You can ask me anything," he says, assuming the chair opposite of hers. His heart has the urge to sit in the chair nearest her, but his head puts her comfort before his wants.

Hesitantly, she takes up the pen in her delicate fingers, wrapping them around it. She repositions the notepad and begins to write, slowly and carefully, as though not to mess up.

When she's finished, her eyes glance up to him and flick away just as quickly. She slides the pad across the table to him.

What's your name?

Her handwriting is astonishingly elegant, perfected to the point that he can envision a younger version of herself, sitting up at night, rehearsing each letter as if to mimic a typewriter's uniformity.

"My name is Isaac Bête-noire," he answers, sliding the pad back. For whatever reason, he feels the need to restate her question as he answers it. Perhaps it's his subconscious trying to make sure she feels heard; telling her that he's listening.

That's how the makeshift interview is held: sliding the notepad back and forth across the table, the girl writing and Isaac reading.

Where am I?

This question he answers with more consideration. The world knows about the existence of werewolves. It isn't a secret anymore; it stopped being one five years ago when their discovery made headlines across the globe. The only problem is that most humans detest them, either because they don't trust them, they don't know them, or they're simply terrified of them.

He doesn't want the girl to be scared off, knowing she's staying amongst werewolves in their homes. But he also doesn't want to withhold anything from her, especially if it's something as crucial or dangerous as that.

There have been very few humans to enter the reservation before. Some have come as alleged allies to their species, and others as objective reporters hoping to spread word of the facts. Some humans are perceived better than others by the werewolves, though never has been an incident. Either way, in the end, their natures are always too polar for them to stay.

"You're at the werewolf reservation of Lake Louise in Alberta, Canada," he says honestly, deciding to bite the bullet for her own safety.

Her eyes widen a bit and her face seems to lose even more of its color.

You're a werewolf? She scribbles quickly, though somehow maintaining her penmanship.

Isaac's stomach knots when he reads it; when he notices her becoming fidgety in her chair.

"I am," he admits, swallowing hard. "But I would never hurt you, okay, beautiful? Nobody else will, either. I promise."

Just as it had the first time, the girl's face goes blood red in an instant. The redness spreads far and wide: over her face, to her ears, and even down her neck. She drops her head slightly, allowing a section of her thick, dark hair to fall over her shoulder to hide her blushing.

It takes her a few seconds before pressing pen to paper again.

How can you promise? She asks. She looks away as he reads it this time.

"I can promise because I won't let them," he replies in a soft, gentle tone, though a frown has invaded his lips.

The fact that she has to rethink her safety hurts something within him. He knows fear doesn't come without a reason, so he asks, "Did something happen to you? Did someone hurt you before?"

The girl's face strains as she bites her lip, looking down so he can barely see her face. It looks as though she's fighting with an emotion, squeezing her eyes shut tight so that the tears might be deterred. Her entire body looks tense, as though it's squeezing as well.

After a moment, her small shoulders finally slump from where they'd been scrunched inward and she loosens her death grip on the paper.

I don't know.

But Isaac knows she does. She may not remember it and she may not be able to see the scene or recall it in her head, but she can feel it. She can feel the emotions surging up from the darkest depths of her subconscious. That much is evident on her face and body.

Isaac has to contain himself; he has to hold back a growl to keep from scaring her and he has to resist the urge to get up and pull her into his embrace because that might have the same effect.

"They won't again," he says. "Nobody will, and if they ever do, I'll make sure they get hurt worse."

Although he's still speaking calmly and soothingly to her, his words carry a meaning quite the opposite. He isn't saying things simply to comfort her. He means it. He means every last word of that threat and as soon as he finds the person who touched her, he'll break them in half.

Again, he realizes all of these swaying things he's feeling and that none of them are like him. Perhaps Mason was right: perhaps Isaac is already attached to this mystery girl. Actually, he knows he is, just like he knows that with every minute more he spends with her is the more he's getting attached.

But why shouldn't he be? She was what he was sensing last night, what kept him sleepless and distressed. He's the one who found her and the one who took initiative in caring for her, bringing her back to the reservation and making sure she was healthy, clothed, and now fed.

It's irrational. He admits that. But perhaps it's the strangeness that has attached him to her instinctively: the things he felt for no reason and her unexplained situation.

"Would it be alright if the doctor came over to check on you?" He asks her, remembering his promise to Illana, and—in the back of his mind—hoping to get more information now that she's conscious.

To his dismay, the girl shakes her head side to side vigorously. Her eyebrows slant at the question, turning disgruntled in a snap.

"Okay," he chuckles at how quickly her attitude changed, and how her whole body swayed with opposition. "No doctors for now."

Again she shakes her head forcefully, writing something hurriedly, pressing the pen down harshly in order to bolden her letters.

No doctors forever.

This time she wears a hardened pout on her face, her brow furrowed stubbornly.

He gives her a stern, pointed look, amusement dancing in his eyes. "There has to be a doctor eventually. I have to make sure you're okay, don't I?"

No, is all she writes, and with that one simple word, Isaac realizes his hands are going to be fuller than he thought.