Page 2 of Kidnapped by the Wolf (Gold Creek Wolves)
CHAPTER TWO
CASSIE
I wait until ten to make my move, since my father always calls a pack meeting on Saturdays. That window between ten and noon is my best chance of getting in and out without being caught, but it’s still not a sure thing.
All shifters have heightened animal senses, and a bear’s sense of smell is particularly strong. Since I’ve spent the last three months bathing in a cold creek, I know I must be especially pungent.
Parking the bus a good half mile away, I hoof it up the steep dirt road that leads to my father’s land. He owns ten acres of dense pine forest that is right on the edge of wolf territory.
A rusty mobile home comes into view, and my heart squeezes in my chest.
Camp McGregor appears deserted, but looks can be deceiving. My father’s asshole pack members like to get drunk, shift, and wander off into the woods to fuck. It wouldn’t be unusual for one of them to come stumbling out of the trees naked.
Saturday meetings are held in my father’s cabin, which is on the opposite side of the property. It’s the only permanent structure here. The rest of the pack lives in mobile homes scattered across the land.
My whole body tenses as I approach the beat-up camper I used to call home. I’m sure someone else has been crashing there since I left — a fact that’s confirmed when I see the giant dent in the front door and the dingy old towel flapping in the window opening.
It looks as though someone tried to kick the door in, and when that didn’t work, they broke a window.
For a moment, I hesitate, and my throat constricts with the memory of Dane’s fingers wrapping around my neck. It’s a scene that plays out frequently in my nightmares — one that wakes me in the middle of the night with a familiar terror squeezing my insides.
Bear shifters don’t kowtow to an alpha the way wolves do, but there is a clear pecking order. Dane is my father’s second-in-command, if only because he’s the biggest. He’s one of the few males in the pack I’m not related to.
If it were up to my father, I’d already be mated to Dane and knocked up with his cub. That way, once my father is too old to dominate the other bears, his progeny will be tied to the new pack leader.
Dane’s escalating violence — and my father’s insistence that I mate with him — are what finally pushed me to leave.
Mating isn’t a formality like marriage. It’s a permanent, unbreakable bond. It doesn’t matter that the females here are all bear shifters with superhuman strength. The males in the pack own their mates.
A ratty winter coat and a few warm clothes aren’t worth being shackled to Dane for the rest of my life, but I can’t afford to buy all new things. Dragging in a deep breath, I try the door to the camper and find it unlocked.
Glancing around one more time to make sure I’m alone, I open the door and slip inside.
My old camper smells like stale beer, week-old garbage, and sweaty, unwashed males. Empty cans are scattered across the small counter, and every other available surface is covered in trash and dirty clothes.
I spot a few of my possessions laying about, but the place has been taken over by another of my father’s pack mates — one without good housekeeping skills.
Kicking an empty condom wrapper out of my path, I open one of my dresser drawers. The one upside to the new inhabitant being a slob is that he hasn’t touched the drawers. All of my cold-weather clothes are still inside, and I start pulling out hoodies, sweaters, jeans, and thermals.
At least my father didn’t have my possessions burned when I left.
Rifling around under the bed, I find a wool stocking cap, a pair of snow boots, and my winter jacket. Stuffing everything into a ratty old duffel, I throw open the door and come face to face with Dane.
The burly bear shifter is well over six feet tall and must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds in human form. His hair is matted, his eyes are bloodshot, and his face is peppered with stubble.
The second our gazes lock, his silver eyes narrow in cold satisfaction. My heart skitters like a stalling engine, and all the blood pools at my feet.
“Well, well . . .” Dane’s lip curls. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
I flinch as his hand flies out, but for once, he doesn’t hit me. Instead, he grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me out of the camper.
SEBASTIAN
It’s annoying spying on the McGregors because they’re so low tech. No smart TVs, no laptops, no security cameras — not even a bloody Bluetooth headset.
The lack of tech makes my job harder, though not impossible.
Flying near the treetops to avoid being seen, I bring my drone in along the northwest corner of their property and pan down over the land.
The camp appears to be deserted, but when I fly over Clint McGregor’s cabin, I see half a dozen four-wheelers and a muddy Ram 1500 parked outside.
They must be having a pack meeting.
I swear. If I could just hack one of their devices, I’d be able to hear everything they’re saying. Hell, I’d settle for a cracked window, but no such luck.
It’s not as though I can fly the drone through the front door. Even the stupid bears would notice that.
Frustrated, I bank around the back of the cabin and fly over the camp. I’m about to bring the drone home and try another day when I spot a burly, unshaven male loping toward a beat-up camper.
Without the benefit of my ultra-sensitive wolf’s nose, I can’t tell if he’s human or shifter. But then the male stops, lifting his head, and I know he’s scenting the air.
Shifter.
His mouth twists in a demented sneer that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
The door to the camper flies open, and a girl appears dressed in faded Levis, boots, and an oversized flannel. She has dark wavy hair, olive skin, and big brown eyes.
When she sees the male, her eyes go wide, and I don’t need my shifter senses to pick up on the pure, undiluted fear that courses through her body.
My wolf growls at seeing her distress. He knows without even being there that this male is a predator.
As if on cue, the male’s hand flies out and grabs a fistful of the girl’s hair. She squeals as he drags her out of the camper, and my fingers tighten on the joystick.
He wouldn’t be able to handle her like that if she was a shifter too.
“I knew you’d be back,” the male snarls, plainly delighting in her terror. “You miss me?”
Ten miles away, my stomach drops, but the female doesn’t cower.
“In your dreams,” she chokes, glowering at the male as he pulls her closer.
Good girl.
“Well, you have starred in a few of my dreams,” he drawls, nostrils flaring as he drinks in her scent.
He grins, and my hand that’s not on the joystick curls into a fist. He’s getting off on the stench of her fear.
In my years as a professional hacker, I’ve crossed paths with my fair share of unsavory characters — high-level criminals, petty scammers, and everything in between.
Strange as it sounds, most white-collar criminals aren’t trying to hurt anyone. They’re just in it for the money. And all the crooks I’ve ever encountered have a way of justifying it to themselves.
As someone who hacks into people’s tech for a living, I try not to judge. I can even respect a well-run con. But if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a predator.
“Let me go, Dane,” the little human snarls.
“I don’t think so,” he rumbles, not bothering to hide his delight. “I just caught you trespassin’ on our land. I think I should take it up with the chief.”
At those words, all the blood drains from the girl’s tanned face.
The male gives a smug chuckle. “Your daddy’s not all that happy with you right now, darlin’. I’m not sure he’s gonna welcome you back.” His eyes narrow in contemplation. “What should I do with you?”
“Go to hell , Dane.”
“I’d be a little nicer if I was you, princess.” He leans in and runs the bridge of his nose along the column of her neck. “A few minutes inside that camper, and you might be able to convince me to ask him to go easy on you for runnin’ out on us like you did.”
My stomach twists into knots.
Even through a computer monitor, I can sense the bastard’s lust. I’ve crossed paths with more sick fucks than the average wolf, and I know he has every intention of dragging that poor girl back into the camper.
“We could be great, you and me,” he goes on in a cajoling tone. “It’s what Clint wants, after all . . . his ungrateful mutt of a daughter mated to the most powerful male in the pack.”
“I’ll never mate with you,” the human growls, glaring up at the bear shifter with a level of boldness I can’t help but admire.
The male lets out a huff of humorless laughter. “You talk as though you have a choice.”
I grind my back molars together so hard that my jaw pops. I know what’s coming next.
It’s the worst part of this job, by far — having to watch without being able to intervene.
But then the shifter’s face goes slack. He doubles over, holding his groin, and the girl darts out of the frame.
“Yes!” I hiss, fist pumping the air in my empty shed.
Relief floods my body but then ebbs away, replaced by grim resolve.
The girl might not have fallen prey to the bear, but she’s about to become a pawn.
Clint McGregor’s worthless second-in-command just gave me the leverage Adrian needs to make these assholes fall in line.