Forced to Marry the Wicked Werewolf Prince

"If you're going to order the salmon, make sure they don't overcook it. The last time I was here, it was practically cat food."

Caroline Thompson stared at the man sitting across from her. Preston Finch. Financial analyst. Ivy League graduate. The eighteenth blind date her mother had forced her into in the last two years.

He wasn't looking at her. He was using his silver fork to trace the menu like he was grading a flawed exam paper.

"The wine list here is a joke," Preston continued, snapping the leather bound menu shut. He finally looked at her, his chin tilted in perpetual judgment. "At my club in New York, we have a sommelier. Here? I wouldn't trust them to open a beer."

Caroline's fingers dug into the fabric of her dress under the table. This was her life now. Sitting across from arrogant men who thought a fat paycheck bought them the right to treat everyone else like peasants.

"So, Caroline," Preston leaned back, offering a smirk that was probably meant to be charming but landed closer to constipated. "My mother mentioned you're a nurse?"

"Intern nurse," Caroline corrected automatically. "At Washington United Medical Center."

"Right." The smirk deepened into outright dismissal. "Must be exhausting. All that cleaning up and taking orders. And the pay? Practically minimum wage, right? Honestly, a pretty girl like you should just find a guy who provides. Someone who makes enough so you don't have to wipe up vomit for a living."

A muscle ticked in Caroline's temple. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his financial advice, but her phone buzzed.

She never took personal calls on a date. But right now, it was the only thing keeping her from baptizing Preston with her ice water.

She glanced at the screen. Her breath hitched. It wasn't just the hospital. It was the direct emergency line from the Chief of Staff.

She answered it right there. "Thompson."

"Caroline." Dr. Alistair Cromwell never used her first name. His voice, usually dripping with academic condescension, was flat. Breathless. "Get back here. Now."

"I'm off the clock, Dr. Cromwell. Is something—"

"I don't have time to repeat myself." The line crackled with background shouting. "This is not a drill. We are at Code Atlas. I say again, Code Atlas. Get here in ten minutes or don't bother coming back at all."

Click.

Caroline sat frozen, the dial tone buzzing against her ear.

Code Atlas.

In all her years of training, she had only heard that term whispered in break rooms like a ghost story. It meant catastrophe. Mass casualties. A high-level terror threat. It meant the world was falling apart.

"I have to go," Caroline said, already grabbing her coat.

Preston scoffed, slamming his water glass down. "You're joking. What kind of emergency could a nurse possibly have? We haven't even ordered."

"It's a Code Atlas," she said, not caring if he understood. She pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet and dropped it on his pristine white tablecloth. "This covers my share of nothing. Goodbye, Preston."

She didn't wait for his face to finish flushing red. She turned on her heel and practically sprinted out of the restaurant.

The Washington air hit her in a heavy, soaking downpour. Adrenaline washed away the lingering disgust of the date. She flagged down a cab dropping someone off at the corner, sliding into the back seat before the passenger was fully on the curb.

"Washington United Medical Center," she gasped. "Step on it."

By the time the cab screeched to a halt, the rain had slowed to a mist, but the chill in Caroline's bones only deepened.

She stepped out and stopped dead.

The hospital had been turned into a fortress.

The main entrance wasn't blocked by ambulances, but by military police. Two armored Humvees idled across the driveway, their headlights cutting through the fog. Men in full combat gear, rifles strapped to their chests, stood behind concrete barricades.

This wasn't a mass casualty event. This was a federal lockdown.

Heart hammering against her ribs, Caroline approached the nearest checkpoint, holding up her ID badge with a trembling hand. "Caroline Thompson. I was paged by Dr. Cromwell."

The guard, a soldier with eyes like flint, scanned her badge, checked a clipboard, and stepped aside. "Go straight to the main desk. Do not deviate from the hallway, ma'am."

Caroline slipped under the yellow tape. The lobby was unrecognizable. The usual chaotic symphony of the ER was gone, replaced by a suffocating, terrified silence. Doctors and nurses huddled in clusters. Armed soldiers lined the corridors like statues.

"Thompson!"

Dr. Cromwell was striding toward her. He looked like he had aged a decade since morning. His white coat was rumpled, a dark coffee stain splashed across his tie.

"Listen carefully, I don't have time for questions," he snapped, his forehead gleaming with sweat. "You are assigned to ICU Room 3. You will monitor the patient's vitals. You will not speak to him. You will not touch any personal effects in the room. If his heart rate fluctuates by more than ten percent, you hit this button." He shoved a black pager into her palm. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go."

Caroline walked briskly toward the private elevator bank. The air smelled different here—sharper, metallic, like ozone and gunpowder.

As she turned the corner, the doors of the VIP elevator slid open. A group of people emerged, moving like a single, lethal organism. Men in dark suits. Military brass with medals gleaming.

But they were just background noise.

In the center, walking slightly ahead, was a man who looked like he had been carved from granite and violence.

He was well over six feet, his shoulders straining the seams of his digital camouflage uniform. The rank on his chest—a silver eagle—demanded absolute submission. His face was a landscape of sharp angles and hard lines, his jaw set like a steel trap.

As the group passed, the man turned his head.

His eyes—a cold, piercing, impossible gray—swept the corridor. And for a fraction of a second, his gaze locked onto Caroline's.

It was like stepping onto a landmine.

The air was violently sucked from her lungs. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot down her spine, freezing her blood. Those eyes didn't just look at her; they stripped her down, assessed her threat level, and branded her in the span of a single heartbeat.

"Colonel Romero," an aide murmured, handing the man a classified tablet.

The spell shattered. The man—Colonel Romero—broke eye contact, taking the tablet without missing a stride. He began firing off orders in a low, gravelly voice that vibrated down the hallway.

Caroline let out a shaky breath, her knees suddenly weak. She hadn't realized she was holding onto the wall until a hand grabbed her arm.

"Are you breathing?" her friend Brenna whispered, pulling Caroline into a supply alcove. Brenna's face was paper-white. "Oh my god, Caroline. Did you see him?"

Caroline swallowed hard, her throat like sandpaper. "The Colonel?"

"Jarrod Romero," Brenna breathed, the name heavy with awe and terror. "Department of Defense. My cousin at the Pentagon says he's the guy they call when the world is ending." She clutched a medical chart to her chest. "He looks like he'd shoot you just for breathing his air."

Caroline rubbed the back of her neck, trying to dispel the lingering, phantom heat from that brief eye contact. "Where are you headed?"

"ICU 3. Cromwell's special assignment."

Brenna's eyes widened, all gossip vanishing instantly. "Oh, God. Caroline, be careful. That patient... this whole thing is black-ops. The FBI tried to get in twenty minutes ago and Romero's men turned them away at gunpoint."

"I just have to watch the monitors," Caroline said, though her voice lacked conviction.

She grabbed a supply cart and pushed through the double doors of the ICU wing. They hissed shut behind her, sealing her in a sterile, fluorescent-lit silence.

Two MPs stood outside Room 3, their faces blank masks. They checked her badge twice before unlocking the door.

The room was freezing. The steady beep-beep of the heart monitor was the only sound.

In the bed lay a young man, motionless. His face was a swollen canvas of bruises, thick bandages wrapping his torso. Caroline moved to the bedside, picking up the chart.

Alston Petersen. Lieutenant. JAG Corps.

The list of his injuries read like a torture report.

She set the chart down, her eyes fixed on the rhythmic spike of the heart monitor. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.

She had told Brenna she just had to watch the monitors. But standing in the freezing room, looking at the broken soldier, Caroline knew the truth.

She had just walked into the eye of a very deadly storm. And the man with the ice-gray eyes was the one holding the lightning.