COLD, DULL LIGHT danced across my eyelids, flickering like ripples on a moonlit pond. Content for a moment to lie quiet and still, I listened to the unfamiliar sounds of the house. As I drew in a deep breath, I found myself surrounded by the warm molasses scent of Holbrook, the smell of him so strong it was like my nose was buried in the crook of his neck. I could almost sense him close by, the overwhelming presence of him making it difficult to pinpoint his location.
Reaching out a hand across the mattress in search of him, I sucked in a sharp breath as every muscle in my body cried out in protest. Lying perfectly still, I focused on the various aches and pains plaguing my battered body. The last traces of the wolfsbane were still working their way out of my system, slowing my healing to an almost human pace and making me feel like a big steaming pile of crap.
My limbs felt as if someone had strapped twenty pound weights to my wrists and ankles, and the stitches in my side pulled and tugged with every breath I took. My cheek still sang with a deep ache as my body worked to reknit the fractured bone.
Johnson. That giant fucking douche nozzle, I cursed, wanting to feel the familiar burn of rage in my gut, but only able to muster an impotent flicker of irritation.
Even the wolf was still feeling too craptastic to be truly angry, lurking somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind and body. I reached out for her, gently testing our connection, and released a deep sigh of relief I hadn’t realized I was holding when I found it intact, albeit weak. I’d heard about extreme cases of wolfsbane poisoning and the permanent damage it could do to the link between human and wolf.
A case had made the national news a few years ago when a scorned woman had drugged her werewolf boyfriend with wolfsbane. During the trial she’d claimed she only meant to give him enough to make him sick, but in her ignorance had given him an almost lethal dose. Rather than killing him, which would have been the merciful thing to do, all things considered, the poison had instead irreparably damaged the connection between his two halves, leaving him consumed with the need to change but unable to shift. He’d explained to doctors in a brief moment of lucidity that he could feel the wolf inside, could sense its emotions, its fear, but couldn’t communicate with it. In the end, the only peace he’d been able to find was a silver bullet in his mouth.
I shuddered, remembering the haunted expression on his face splashed across the TV screen in vivid color, and thanked whatever powers were listening that I hadn’t suffered the same fate.
The light spilling around the edges of the drapes was pale when I cracked my eyes open, glimpsing shadows of an unfamiliar room. Drawing in another deep breath, I let the overwhelming scent of Holbrook ease my sluggish mind despite the foreignness of the bed. I grasped at faint memories of him carrying me through the house and tucking me in, the sheer sappiness of it all making me grin like a besotted schoolgirl. I guess even werewolves can be romantics at heart.
Levering myself up out of bed, I bit the tip of my tongue to keep from crying out, focusing instead on forcing my limbs into motion despite the pain tearing through every inch of my body.
If I ever get my hands on Johnson again, he’s going to wish he’d never drawn breath.
I braced a hand on the headboard and hauled myself up on shaking legs, the tug of the stitches in my side making me gag against the sudden wave of nausea that made the room spin. Breathing through the dizziness, I forced myself to take one step and then another, moving across the room like an arthritic eighty year-old.
If only someone had remembered to leave my walker close at hand.
Following a path I remembered in foggy flashes from the night before, I slowly shambled through the house, hoping I might find Holbrook with a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me at the end of my journey. Instead I found an empty living room and silent kitchen bathed in cool, morning light. Padding into the room, I found that at least half of my fantasy had come true—a fresh pot of coffee sat on the counter, my bottle of painkillers next to it.
Searching through the cabinets, wrapping one hand around my throbbing ribs as I stretched out on tiptoes, I pulled down a mug.
“Who the hell keeps their mugs on the top shelf?” I muttered, cursing Holbrook’s height.
My hand trembled as I filled my mug, but miraculously I was able to get most of the coffee into the mug rather than all over the counter. After mopping up my mess, I dumped several packets of sweetener and a ton of milk into my coffee, not even bothering to stir it before taking the first sip.