How to Run with a Naked Werewolf (Naked Werewolf 3)

I’m going down to the lobby for some Tylenol.

I’m blowing this Popsicle stand, you lying sociopathic werewolf dick.

But I couldn’t seem to produce the words. They seemed to be building up in my throat, threatening to choke me if they poured out of my mouth.

“Tina, what’s going on?”

I was practically hyperventilating. All the moments we’d shared, the laughs, the mishaps, every kiss and touch, spun through my head on fast-forward. And rage, white-hot and all-consuming, bubbled up from my belly. I yanked my hand out of his grasp, raised my foot high, and stomped his sensitive instep. Caleb yowled, letting go of my wrist as he hopped away on his good foot.

“What did you do that for?” he demanded, but by that time, my hand had snaked into my bag and charged the Taser. I clicked the control, swung my arm up, and pressed the prongs to his skin. Without a moment’s hesitation, I fired it, sending canned lightning straight into Caleb’s chest.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t considered how the water covering Caleb’s skin would carry the current, and he ended up twitching on the carpet in full-body shock. He shouted for just a second before his jaw muscles locked up. The charge ended, and Caleb looked up at me, eyes wide and golden in their distress. “If this is some sort of kinky ‘naughty cat burglar’ role-playing game, I am not getting it,” he said, panting.

I grunted and gave him another shot, just on principle. This could be considered a breakup, right? Nothing says I’m just not that into you like Taser fire.

“S-stop T-t-tasering me!” he shouted, sounding more annoyed than injured. For a millisecond, I felt a little guilty. There’s nothing more pathetic than a wet, naked guy flopping all over a hotel carpet while being electrocuted. And then the laptop caught my eye, and I got pissed off all over again. I dropped the Taser into my bag. He sat up, gingerly pressing at the already-healing contact burns on his chest. “What the hell is going on?”

“Read your e-mail,” I snarled. Caleb caught my arm, dragging me down to the carpet next to him.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

I shrugged him off and tried to stand up, only to have him grab my arm again and stop me. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you asshole!”

He sighed. “I’m really sorry about this.”

“You think sorry is going to cover what you did?” I hissed, finally managing to push to my feet.

He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry about this.” With speed you wouldn’t expect from a guy who’d been recently Tasered, he swiped his leg out, knocking my feet out from under me. I flopped onto the carpet next to him with a startled uuhf!

My only excuse was that, as with a lot of things about Caleb, I just didn’t see it coming.

He groaned, pulling my arm away from his face, where it had apparently flopped with quite a bit of force as I fell. As petty as it was, that made me feel a little bit better.

“I’m sorry I kicked you,” he said solemnly, working his jaw to loosen the abused muscles. “But considering the Taser, I think we’re even. Now, will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

“You know who I am,” I told him, scooting across the floor to brace my back against the closet door.

“Of course I know who you are!” he cried, rolling toward me. “You told me all about it.”>I didn’t remember flagging his messages to go into a special folder. But now that I thought about it, I hadn’t seen a new message from him in more than a week.

Frowning at the screen, I tapped my fingers on the touch pad. I thought we’d handled all of Schuna’s cases. In fact, I’d sent him his last progress report the day before. Maybe there was a problem with the report? I opened the message.

Graham—

I need another progress report on the Bishop ‘missing person’ case. The client is getting antsy. Thank God, the guy’s in Tennessee, or he’d be camped out in my office, waiting for news. I’d drop his twitchy ass, but he’s paying me double. I’m willing to up your stake by twenty percent if you would just find this woman and put us all out of our misery. Send me what you can ASAP, and I’ll pass it along to him.

—S.

It took me a moment to realize that the wounded, inhuman sound piercing my eardrums was coming from my mouth. Bishop case? Out of Tennessee? It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be my Bishop case. There had to be some sort of funny coincidence to explain this away.

All of the blood seemed to drain from my hands, leaving them cold and shaking as I tapped at the touch pad and opened the rest of the e-mails. They started two months before, around the time Red-burn sent me the red alert. I opened the attachments and found Glenn’s official “case report” listing me as a runaway spouse. He’d told Schuna I had a history of mental illness, substance abuse, and filing false police reports. He’d been trying to get me help, he claimed, and when I found out that he was planning to have me committed to special rehab for the mentally ill, I ran. He just wanted to bring me home and get me help, he claimed.

I clicked through the attachments, finding our wedding portrait, credit reports, transcripts, lists of friends, my résumé and work history—which was amazing, really, considering the supposed mental problems and pill addictions Glenn subtly indicated to my coworkers. The final blow was a picture of me on the beach on our second wedding anniversary. It was displayed on a flyer demanding, “Have You Seen This Woman?” I’d always hated that picture. I was giving the camera my happy-on-the-surface smile, and I looked a little tired around the eyes, but that was to be expected when Glenn had kept me up until five that morning, accusing me of flirting with the waiter who served our anniversary dinner.

Caleb had been hired to find me.

I stumbled into the bathroom on watery legs, collapsing in front of the commode just before I tossed the contents of my stomach. Rivers of tears poured down my cheeks as I threw up, over and over. I balanced my head against my crossed arms, sobbing and sniffling. I grabbed a washcloth, still wet from my shower, and swiped at my face. I collapsed back against the tub.

How could I have been so stupid? He’d been lying to me all this time. Everything he’d said and done had been a cold-blooded calculation to lead me back to Glenn. Pretending not to know my name. Pretending not to know about my connection to the pack, not to know I was a doctor. He’d been pretending, training me to trust him, to let him close, like coaxing a stray cat into your house with a can of tuna. I thought I was being so smart, so guarded, and I’d walked right into his trap.