Raphael's clawed hand shook as he brought the vial of blood to the stranger's lips. Gripping in this form was awkward enough without the guilt and shame over what he'd done. His other hand cradled the stranger's head gently, lifting it slightly to prevent choking.

"Please," he said, his voice more growl than whisper. "You have to drink." He tipped the vial as carefully as he could.

He should never have gone to that business dinner, but it was important. Very important. Raphael had always been very careful to leave his schedule open on full moon nights, but this deal was so crucial to his plans to extend maternity leave for Terraverde employees that he'd caved. And instead of excusing himself early, as he'd planned to, he'd gotten caught up in the discussion and left late. He should've hidden somewhere and waited for the night to pass. But no—he'd tried to drive home.

Raphael had only barely been aware of losing control of the steering wheel as his bones began to shift and rearrange themselves. Next thing he knew, he'd hit someone. Hard. He'd debated calling emergency services and driving off, but a hit-and-run would've weighed on his conscience—so he'd brought the stranger to his home. His living room, normally so tidy, was now a chaotic mess of stained towels and red smears.

His amber eyes watched as the vial emptied, and he set it aside. Instinctively, he moved a padded finger to wipe at the stranger's lips. Werewolf blood had potent healing properties, but it couldn't bring someone back from the dead. His mind raced. Should he have called emergency services after all?

Raphael sucked in a sharp breath when the stranger stirred. Oh no. He was still a werewolf. He wasn't worried about his secret getting out—humans were magically bound not to speak of the supernatural to those who didn't know of it—but he didn't want to scare this person half to death. His ears flattened against his head, and he tried to make himself seem as small as possible.

"I'm...trying to help you," he rasped. "Don't freak out? Please?"