Page 17 of Claimed By the Werewolf Boss

Am I? Shouldn’t I feel bad for the thoughts that have been volleying in my head? Shouldn’t I be scared that I’m growing attached to a man clearly capable of immense violence?

Fuck it, I’m not growing attached. I am at full-on level nine clinging. He would have killed for me after barely knowing me. Valentino has seen all that I am, listened to my boring stories about work and writing, and still he can’t keep his eyes off me. He wants to keep me near him now and forever.

“Would you ever hurt me? Even if I upset you?” I ask softly. My gut says no. The moment the words are out of my mouth, disgust roils in my belly. The room around us grows quiet and tense, but I keep staring at Valentino, watching his facial features. Would he lie to me?

“I would never let anyone, myself included, live for raising a hand to you.”

“The man the other day is still alive,” I argue, trying to point out the absurdity in that statement because a normal person doesn’t talk like this.

“For now,” he hedges around an answer before going back to my original question. “But no matter what, we will solve our disputes with words and respect. How I am with the outside world has nothing to do with how I am with my family or with you, Cheyenne. Do you trust me?”

His emotions are written across his face. Valentino is scared.

All this time, I thought I was the one who would grow too attached too quickly.

That my clinginess would turn him off. But if anything, he needs me to spell it out for him.

Just like I would do anything for Junelle, I would do anything for Valentino.

He still has his secrets. He could be a serial killer, but my head and heart are aligned.

“With my life.” I smile.

He leans into me, and I meet him halfway. Our lips brush together chastely, and I only draw away because I know there are eyes on us. Junelle winks at me when I look her way, and my cheeks heat. Andrea looks fucking smug before he raises his glass in the air.

“To family, and to love,” he shouts.

The table erupts with cheers. We down our drinks and that’s that. Our holiday is nearly over, the wedding is tomorrow, and it seems I’m going home with more than just some souvenirs on Sunday. This short time away has been more fulfilling than I could have imagined.

“Grab some of your things and stay in my suite tonight,” Valentino says. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Is the surprise more breaking and entering?”

“No.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll be waiting.”

Despite that promise, I lock my door anyway.

I’m not risking him barging in on me using the bathroom.

That’s a bridge we can cross later. I strip and put on my pyjamas.

Unlike the other night, there is a level of security and confidence I feel wearing them now.

If anything, when I look in the mirror to remove my makeup and say my words of affirmation, I believe them with my whole chest.

“You look really good.” I smile at my reflection, a wine and excitement-fuelled flush on my cheeks. “You deserve to take up space.”

I stuff my earbuds into my pocket, and my toothbrush and a few other toiletries into my makeup bag.

Time to get my back blown out for the second time today and see what sort of surprise Valentino claims to have for me.

We’ve barely spent any time apart, so I doubt it’s a gift.

But maybe he’s going to spill what he’s been holding back from me.

If he tells me he runs a criminal organisation, I’m absolutely going to barge into Junelle’s room and cry at her for not telling me.

I flick off my bathroom lights, horny imaginings twirling around my thoughts.

There’s a shift in the sudden darkness. My heart jumps into my throat and my skin prickles.

It’s probably my imagination, a little too much sun mixing with the prosecco at dinner.

I turn the light back on and there’s nothing.

“If you’re a murderer, you have to tell me,” I joke to myself in hopes it clears up the uneasiness in my stomach.

Obviously nobody responds, and I turn the light off again. The room is bathed in darkness with a faint glow from outside. My eyes adjust as I slide on my sandals to make the walk across the villa.

Then something moves out of the corner of my eye. A flicker of red light, maybe the AC unit is switching functions. That’s the logical explanation that my brain is trying to feed my overactive nervous system. Like a chilly wind coming up from the harbour, a shiver tracks down my spine all the same.

But then I hear it. A pair of knuckles crack, or maybe it’s someone’s back because the sound gets louder and deeper until it’s a cacophony in the dark. Then there is silence again. It’s almost worse, my heart rate climbing as my throat tightens.

Clack.

I can’t breathe.

Clack.

I can’t move.

Clack.

The sound of thick, sharp claws dragging against the tiles makes my blood run cold. What the fuck is going on? What is in my room? I’m too scared to even lift my phone. My makeup bag is crushed to my chest with trembling fingers.

Heat radiates from the shadow towering over me as it wraps a claw-tipped hand around my throat. Glowing red eyes look at me with such disdain, such hatred, I didn’t even know was possible for a monster.

We stare at each other for a moment before his grip tightens. Was he hoping I’d scream? I can’t move, I can barely fucking comprehend what’s before me. My cheeks bulge as I try to draw in a breath.

It’s only when he lifts me off the ground that my body does anything.

I drop my phone and bag, grabbing his wrists for leverage to keep him from crushing my windpipe.

His fur is thick and coarse, my useless nails unable to do any damage.

Everything starts to burn as my vision blurs and my legs shake.

“I’m worse. ”

Just as I think I might pass out, he turns and raises me higher until I’m dangling over his massive form. His outline becomes more obvious. Like ’out of some B movie, a white werewolf materialises under the moon before I black out.

I wake with a fright, coughing and sputtering. Visions of a white wolf cloud my thoughts for a moment, but then I hear regular human voices. Nothing supernatural is happening here. My brain was just working too hard earlier.

“She’s awake,” one man says.

“Leave her in the cage for a bit longer, disgusting slut.”

I flinch at the response. That man’s voice sounds familiar. It tickles something at the back of my head, like I’ve heard it recently. The sound of a podcast turning up a little higher stops any possible memory, some dudes complaining about how modern media is infecting men with femininity.

When I swallow, my throat hurts. The rest of me aches from whatever else has happened, but when I rub my ankles together, I’m still in my sweatpants.

My hands are tied behind my back, but not tightly.

Like they don’t think I’ll try to get out of here.

My head is wrapped in some sort of scarf.

It tastes like silk or satin when I lick it.

Something about the slinky material is nice around my face, but every screech of a chair reminds me that this isn’t a fun time.

This is a fucking nightmare.

I’ve been kidnapped.

A chill rushes down my spine.

I’ve written scenes like this before. Dark romance is something that I’ve found comfort in, a safe place to explore the desires I’ve had since I realised what sex was.

For years, dreams of being kidnapped and held as a sexy captive have titillated me because I never thought anyone would care enough about me to go to such extreme measures.

My intensity around relationships, the way I cling onto people, has always been risky.

Coming up with excuses for friends who used me in high school, to bed partners who were terrified at how I felt about them.

Valentino’s the only person who’s been able to meet me stride for stride that way.

Obviously, I realise this is a crime. And this is not how I would want my dream abduction to go.

For one, my imaginary stalker isn’t here.

They don’t listen to shitty podcasts. They know I don’t like to be humiliated that way, too.

Fuck, even Valentino understood that when I said it to him, but this man isn’t trying to turn me on.

He’s trying to scare the shit out of me.

I really should be taking this more seriously.

Maybe making some mental notes will help.

If I can assess the situation better, I can decide what their plan is for me.

Given the security around the villa, I don’t think this is a casual pick or even a response from the pickpocket the other day.

This was not an opportunistic snatch and grab.

I also know that of the demographics for kidnapping in Europe, my body type doesn’t usually fit the bill.

There are exceptions to everything of course, but I’m hopeful this isn’t a sex trafficking situation either.

I twist my wrists until I can pull one hand through the loose ties.

My fingers smooth over the material, it’s not nylon rope or really rope of any kind.

From the raw, fraying edge, I think it might be a torn shirt or sheet.

They could have torn up my bedding to use as a last-minute binding.

Underneath me is a cheap, padded cushion based on how it squishes under my fingers.

They said I’m in a cage. What size is it?

I slide my feet around slowly until I can find each of the edges.

It’s not very big. My legs are still bent, and I barely have to stretch to touch both corners.

I have a choice now. My hands are free. Do I stay like this, or do I pull off my blindfold?

It’s a risk, and I probably shouldn’t do anything to upset the guys who took me, but if they are going to be bad at their jobs, that’s not my fault.