Bad Case of Loving You

by Dakota Cassidy

  “I’d much rather lick you than chocolate ice cream,” he coaxed, working his lips over her jaw until his mouth was on hers. He drove his tongue inside, making her knees buckle.

  Was there ever any hope of denying Crosby? The moment his hands were on her was the moment she was pathetically lost and kissing him right back.

  They hadn’t talked about what happened at all, but that was partly because she’d avoided any conversation about it. She wanted to sit with it for a while, let it all sink in before she tarnished it with her doubts and insecurities. But she also didn’t want it to happen again before they had the chance to discuss what it meant.

  Crosby had no idea she was still his wife. He’d be angry when he found out, no doubt, and all his amorous advances would be put on hold until he came to grips with the fact that she’d essentially nursed him back to health and knew all along who he’d been before this accident.

  His hard muscles flexed, tensing and bunching under her hands, reminding her she had somewhere to be. But when his chest expanded and he rasped against her mouth, “This is how it always should be, Ella. I feel like this is right,” she melted.

  Yes. At one time, it had been very right.

  Those words made her heart clench in painful memory and her eyes mist with tears.

  “I love you, Ella,” he whispered suddenly, urgent and silky against her mouth, surprising not just her, but him by the look on his face.

  She buried her head in his neck and luxuriated in this moment, absorbing his statement in slow increments; afraid it might just be the kind of statement one made to their caregiver rather than one between man and wife. Falling in love with someone who took care of you 24/7 was textbook psychiatry.

  But somewhere deep inside her, Ella prayed it was the Crosby she’d married, fighting his way back.

  And if it was?

  There was a whole lot of explaining to do.

  Until then, she needed to see what was beyond the other side of the fence. The plan was to just snoop around, nothing more. If she could find out what the fence had to do with Crosby, and if it might help with his recovery, then she had to at least investigate.

  Because she’d never survive falling in love with a man who only existed because he’d been clunked on the head.

  Going to the pack with this information had been like ramming her head against a brick wall. Morton and Max had both scoffed at the notion there was anything in Gordon’s Crest that need concern her, and the former had reminded her of Crosby’s youth. One filled with daredevil stunts that had probably led him to the fence on many dares from his buddies.

  Morton had dubbed Crosby’s recollection a mix-up of memories, and dismissed them.

  But she knew better. The more Morton denied, the more certain she was that he was full of shit.

  So it was over the fence she was going, with the hope that she’d find absolutely nothing and come home to finish nursing Crosby back to health.

  “So about that ice cream. Can there be cookies, too?” he asked against her neck. “Cookies will help me recuperate faster. I’m sure of it.”

  Her laughter bubbled in her throat, escaping in a deep chuckle. “Cookies make everything better.”

  “Isn’t that bacon?”

  “No cookies or bacon,” she chided. “Your cholesterol’s going to be through the roof as it is with all the red meat and eggs you eat. Now put me down, heathen. I have gathering to do.” She untangled herself from him, mourning the loss of his arms when she stepped back.

  Crosby pulled her tight to him once more. “Double Stuf Oreos. I think they’re my favorite.” He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m all over it.”

  * * * *

  “Morton?”

  “Crosby?”

  “That would be me. Former amnesiac.”

  “You remember?”

  He heard the surprise in Morton’s voice and smiled. “You bet your ass I do. Now gather the pack and let’s get this done. Ella deserves an explanation, and the bunch of you have kept me from her too long with all this secrecy and spy crap. If we’re quick, we can have this sewn up before she gets back from her errands.”

  He heard Morton bluster. “I doubt that’s going to give us the kind of time we need, Crosby. We need to notify Max and Brock, too. We have to handle this delicately,” he urged.

  Crosby popped the wall with his fist. “Fuck delicate. Balls to the wall. I’m not wasting another second. Besides, how long does it take to kick some human ass? We’re werewolves, Morton. You know—big, strong, sharp-sharp teeth. Now gather the pack and let’s do this so I can come home to my woman. Finally.”

  He clicked his cell phone off—the cell phone he’d snuck from the office Morton had said was his when they’d had dinner together the other night, then charged secretly in Ella’s guest bedroom.

  While Morton had ordered out, he’d scoured his office, at that point still crippled with amnesia.

  But just before he’d gone to sleep in Ella’s bed, he’d remembered everything.

  Marina Preston, Franklin Little, the bidding he’d done for the pack instead of putting Ella first. The reason he’d ended up with amnesia in the first place.

  And now it was time to take his life back.

  Take his wife back.

  * * * *

  So whatever. She was impulsive. Fine. Label, label, label.

  The trouble with the truth was, it always revealed itself at the most inopportune time.

  You know, like when you were tied up in some crazy motherfucker’s closet?

  Her eyes darted to the door of the walk-in closet. The walk-in closet a.k.a. dream come true. While she should be panicked half out of her mind, she was too busy eyeing all the designer dresses and shoes to be very freaked out.

  Wow. Somebody was a lucky, lucky girl.

  Her nostrils flared. Holy cow! As she wrapped her head around where she was, she realized this was Marina Prescott’s closet. Yes, it was. Her scent was emblazoned on Ella’s memory.

  But had Marina been the one who’d tackled her, slapped some nasty-smelling cloth over her mouth and shoved her into her closet?

  No. Not a chance. First, Marina was half the size of Ella. Second, she was a human. No tiny human with big boobs and the face of an angel was responsible for hoisting her size-twelve butt over a shoulder and dumping her here.

  Clearly, whoever had grabbed her while she was digging around the woods on the other side of the fence didn’t know she was a werewolf.

  Because, oh look—there went the badly wrapped duct tape on her wrists with a stretch and a snap. Duct tape + werewolf = stupid kidnapper. Ella ripped it apart with ease, pissed that the sticky residue was stuck to her sweater.

  For the first time in days, she’d finally put on some cute clothes and now they were ruined with duct tape glue.

  The bastard who’d done this had to pay. When she got her hands on the shit who’d taped her up and given her a black eye—the whoop-ass was on.

  Next she tore off the duct tape on her mouth and around her ankles with a wince then rose to her haunches, taking care to listen with her ear pressed to the closet door.

  Nothing.

  Okay. So in this case, maybe she should have listened to Morton. No sooner had she hopped over that fence and begun to explore, following her nose to a dreadful yet maddeningly recognizable scent, than she’d been knocked out cold.

  She cocked the closet door open and peered out the crack.

  Again, nothing.

  There was no light on in the opulent bedroom draped in tasteful moss-green silk and ivory.

  Ella slipped from the closet and dashed toward the bedroom door, once more stopping to listen. Now, outside the dream closet, the scent that had brought her here in the first place overwhelmed her. The instinct to follow it was innate.

  Her eyes scanned what she figured was Marina’s bedroom and landed on her own purse, scattered on the bed—with a b
roken strap. Damn. What a shitty thing to do. It was such a cute purse.

  A cute purse with, hopefully, her cute phone still inside. She dug around the interior until her fingers felt the rough bumps of her pink rhinestone phone cover.

  Sure enough, there it was. What kind of moron kidnapper left all of the hostage’s stuff out in the open?

  Ella was more convinced than ever. It was the kind of kidnapper who didn’t know he’d nabbed the wrong werewolf broad. Which meant this person felt safe enough to leave her in a closet while he did his evil bidding. It also meant the kidnapper could be back at any time.

  Shit.

  Grabbing her phone from the pretty bed, she jammed it into her back pocket and closed the closet door, making sure everything was mostly the way she’d found it.

  A quick survey of the room revealed a window seat with fluffy pillows. The window made for a surefire escape. Crossing the room, Ella peered out, that scent of desperation ever present. She flipped the window open with a quick snap and snuck out onto the roof, compelled to find out where the smell was coming from.

  Lying flat, Ella shimmied along the roof, scanning its line and row after row of shingles.

  Damn. This was some house—or estate, to be precise. The roof spanned almost farther than she could see. Sliding to an edge, she peered down.

  No one.

  Perfect.

  Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side and jumped to the ground with a soft grunt, landing on a terra-cotta-colored patio with French doors, through which she could see clear to the monstrous entryway at the front of the house. Assessing her surroundings, she flared her nostrils again.

  Then put the back of her hand to her mouth and tried not to gag.

  What the hell was that smell? It was coming from around the huge kidney-shaped pool with the most perfectly trimmed flowering shrubs and green bushes Ella had ever seen. White twinkling lights graced bonsai trees now out of season, and enormous pots stuffed full of dead mums that hadn’t survived the frost sat in groups amidst patio tables and chairs.

  She followed the stench, winding along the house, ducking behind arborvitaes and spindly rhododendrons, passing windows that went floor to ceiling.

  Ella stopped at the middle of the house and covered her mouth again, the smell was so overpowering. Amongst the fear and sorrow, she smelled something so distinctly familiar, it rooted her in place.

  What was that, goddamn it? And why couldn’t she decipher it from everything else?

  And then a scraping noise, light and probably only audible to her sharp hearing, made her stop breathing. And again she heard it, persistent and grating in her ears.

  Ella rounded another corner, following the sound until she stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open in horror.

  Holy shit.

  Chapter 9

  Ella fought for breath—fought to keep from dropping to her knees and screaming with rage as her eyes took in the horror on the other side of the basement window.

  Her horror immobilized her, but she reminded herself to get it together and think. Think, Ella, think!

  Morton—she’d call Morton. And Max, too. If she could just keep from being caught.

  She sank to the ground, making herself as small as she could against the concrete foundation of Marina’s house, and let her head fall to her arms, gasping for breath with ugly wheezes.

  Before she had the chance to pull her phone out of her back pocket, it vibrated against her ass.

  If it was one of the pack, calling to razz her about Crosby and his damn amnesia, she’d throw the stupid thing out. And then she’d move to a pack in Tibet where she was free to be herself.

  Sliding her finger over the screen, Ella realized it wasn’t a call at all, but a Twitter notification.

  She had like five followers, one of which was a Britney-bot. Who the hell was tweeting her now, of all times? Clicking on the app, she cocked her head at the Twitter message. It was from Hairofthedog.

  Long-lost Hairofthedog. The social-networking, cheating bastard. Where had he been while she’d been nursing Crosby and could’ve used a distraction?

  Her eyes focused on the tweet. A tweet that, instead of making her do what it demanded, made her roll her eyes.

  Hairofthedog: @EllaBelle Tell me where the hell u r?

  She cocked her head. Now? Really? Now he was suddenly, mysteriously available when all hell was about to break loose? Wasn’t that just like a man?

  Yet, even in the face of imminent danger, she was compelled to impulsively ask where the hell he’d been.

  EllaBelle: @Hairofthedog WTF? Where the hell have U been?

  Hairofthedog: @EllaBelle Now isn’t the time to argue. Y r u always so mouthy? Pay attention. Where r u?

  EllaBelle: @Hairofthedog #Youreastupidhead

  She almost clicked off the app to call Mort, but the phone vibrated angrily. Goddamn it.

  Hairofthedog: @EllaBelle Tell me where u r? I know ur not at the store. #dontbaPITA.

  Ella’s eyes grew wide. Who the hell? She craned her neck to take a look around, fear pumping through her veins. How did he know she wasn’t at the store? How did he know she’d gone to the store to begin with?

  There was obviously a connection here, though one she clearly wasn’t capable of making due to her fear of what lay beyond that basement window.

  Ella gulped and shoved a fist to her mouth when her phone vibrated again.

  Hairofthedog: @EllaBelle I need u to pay attention. If u r where I think u r, I’m going to take u over my knee. WHERE R U?

  Ella’s lips thinned even as her eyes peered into the darkness. It was like this person was watching her. Oh shit. Was he? Her stomach took a lurching nosedive.

  EllaBelle: @Hairofthedog I’m not telling u where I am. That’s careless, foolish social networking. #nodummyhere

  Hairofthedog: @EllaBelle Ella! This is Crosby! Tell me where u r NOW!

  That stopped her cold. Sure. It was Crosby. She almost laughed.

  Almost. Except…

  How the hell had Hairofthedog known to use Crosby’s name?

  A last frightened glance down at another incoming tweet was the last thing she saw.

  Hairofthedog: @EllaBelle #DangerWillRobinsondanger!

  Okay. There were two things.

  The second being a roar so filled with rage it made her chin swing upward.

  Just in time to see a bat come hurtling at her head.

  * * * *

  “Ella, honey,” someone crooned against her throbbing, tender head. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

  Oh no. If her eyes were closed, she didn’t have to acknowledge that she’d been nailed like some sissy in front of whoever wanted her to wake up.

  She sniffed, her nose pressing into a material she identified as leather. It was Crosby. In his old leather jacket. One he’d worn a million times before. This was so nice. For a change, he was tending to her…

  Hold up. What was Crosby doing at Marina Preston’s badass mansion?

  Propping one eye open, she fought to focus on his blurry image. It faded in and out while she squinted painfully.

  He ran a hand over her sore cheek, tracing the lump. “Wake up, Ella.”

  Someone pressed a cold compress to the side of her face and Crosby thanked them.

  She struggled to sit up and take in the sounds, but it made her dizzy. “Where are we, and what are you doing wherever we are? God. You just don’t listen. I told you to stay put, didn’t I?” She closed her eyes and mumbled her discontent, even if that discontent was sprinkled with joy that it was Crosby’s arms holding her.

  “Woman, pay attention. You scared the hell out of me. What were you thinking, coming here?”

  “Where exactly is ‘here’ and what do you know about ‘here’ anyway?”

  “Open your eyes, Ella.”

  With Crosby’s help, she sat upright and winced at the glare of floodlights bouncing off the dead grass of Marina’s football-field-sized backyard.
The man she’d met with Marina, Franklin Little, sat on the ground in a corner, blood dripping from his nose, his lip fatter than a monster-truck tire. “Why is that Franklin guy bleeding on Marina’s lawn?”

  “Because I beat the living shit out of him for hitting you.”

  “He hit me? I’ll kill him!” But then everything rushed back to her at once. What she’d seen before someone had knocked her out, creating a horrifying visual in her brain.

  Wolves—locked up in Marina’s basement. Weak, hungry, pacing, afraid and so neglected, it had torn a hole in her heart. Real, full-blooded wolves. So thin and undernourished, Ella might have mistaken them for dogs if not for their scents.

  Her nostrils flared for the hundredth time that night. There it was again. That one elusive scent she just couldn’t distinguish because the other aromas were so overpowering.

  She shook her head and closed her eyes at the sight of those same wolves now being led away by her pack leaders. Max and Derrick coaxed them, spoke with gentle voices, encouraged the wolves to come with them. “What is this?” she asked from between lips that trembled.

  “This is Marina Preston’s house—or at least, it’s in her name. She doesn’t actually live here. She has a townhouse on the other side of Gordon’s Crest because she said after her father died, the house was too big and drafty to live in alone. Franklin Little, her guardian and supposed financial advisor, offered to look after the place.”

  “Franklin Little… He was with her when she came to Morton’s office.”

  “You met her?”

  Ella heard the disbelief in his tone and fought not to scream the word “YES” in his face. Being childish and petty served no purpose other than a quick fix to her pent-up resentments.

  Ella flapped a hand upward, confused. “Hold on. Before we go any further, how is it you remember everything about Marina and nothing about anything else?”

  Crosby’s handsome face changed from concerned to confident. “Oh, I remember everything now, Ella-Belle.”

  Several different emotions attacked her at once. The old Crosby was back, and while that was good news for the pack—not so good news for her. “So you have your memory back,” she said, her tone wooden and lifeless.