Page 3 of Kidnapped by the Wolf (Gold Creek Wolves)

CHAPTER THREE

CASSIE

My heart is in my throat when I reach my bus and jam the key into the ignition. I’m not sure if Dane followed me or sounded the alarm to the rest of the pack. If so, I might have two dozen angry bear shifters after me.

“ Come on, come on, come on, ” I coax, turning the key and willing the sixty-year-old engine to start.

Finally, the bus roars to life, and relief floods my body. I hit the gas and peel away from my father’s camp just as Dane appears between the trees.

“Fuck!” I hiss, biting my thumb as I think of how close I came to being a prisoner in my father’s pack — mated to Dane for life.

I never should have gone back.

Before, Dane and my father might have chalked up my departure to me being an ungrateful human mutt — an outcast among shifters. Now I’ve hurt Dane’s pride and given the sick fuck a reason to come after me and assert his dominance.

My body is still humming with nervous energy as I pull up at the art walk. Main Street is blocked off for the event, and there’s a bottleneck of traffic from people making their way downtown.

I take my usual detour along a side street and park behind the crystal store, struggling to keep the rising panic in my chest at bay. It feels strange going about my business after my run-in with Dane, but I don’t know what else to do.

Being in a crowd seems safer than retreating to my makeshift campsite right now, and there are so many wolf shifters with businesses on Main that I doubt any of my father’s bears would make an appearance.

Still, I can’t help looking over my shoulder as I unload the wheeled suitcase I use to transport my jewelry. I find a sunny spot between a wood carver and an oil painter and lay out a brightly colored Mexican blanket on the sidewalk.

My hands shake slightly as I unwrap bundles of necklaces and spread out my wares. The crystals glint in the late-October sun, and I get a little tingle of pride as I take in my display.

I don’t do your basic wire-wrap crystal necklaces. I use glass, metal, and clay beads, as well as raw gemstones for the charms. Combining different materials and textures gives each piece a unique and slightly chaotic look. My jewelry is usually a big hit with the eclectic tourist crowd that frequents the art walk.

Glancing up at the golden aspen leaves, I lament that the season is nearly over. Soon Gold Creek will be covered in snow, and the town won’t hold another art walk until it melts in the spring.

Still, the last couple weeks of good weather are usually my most lucrative. People are out doing some early Christmas shopping, and they often buy multiple pieces. Maybe once the art walk shuts down here, I’ll make my way to Lakewood for the holiday bazaar. I’ll only be one jewelry maker in a sea of vendors, but there will also be a lot more shoppers.

Feeling slightly better, I pull out my beat-up Makala ukulele and start strumming the intro to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” The familiar song calms my frayed nerves, and after only a few bars, the music begins to attract attention.

Slowly, pedestrians amble over to my display, admiring my jewelry as they listen. I pause between songs to ring up my customers, and I sell several necklaces and a couple of bracelets before it starts to rain.

A few cold droplets land on my uke, and a frigid breeze whips down Main. A truck with a trailer pulls into the alley behind me, and the wood carver begins packing up his wares as wind buffets the tents.

Shivering in my thin flannel, I hurriedly start to gather my unsold pieces. I curse as the wind sends my stack of gift bags flying, and I scramble out into the street to save as many as I can.

A soft whirring noise reaches my ears, and I look up to see a drone hovering about ten feet overhead. Then it banks and zips off down Main, and I quickly stuff the soggy gift bags into the beat-up suitcase.

The rain has turned to sleet by the time I’ve finished packing up my things. Tossing my uke strap over one shoulder and covering myself with the blanket, I jog across Main and turn down the side street where I parked my bus.

The wind howls as I reach my parking space, fumbling in my pocket for my key. I manage to get the back hatch open and turn to haul my stuff inside, but then a gloved hand clamps over my mouth, and strong arms haul me back.

I try to scream, but my attacker’s hand dampens the sound. Panic floods my system.

I thrash and kick, but the arms hold me in an iron grip. My first thought is of Dane, but it doesn’t smell like him. The man holding me smells expensive — like Italian leather, bergamot, and musk.

Grunting and flailing, I smash my foot down on his, but he doesn’t loosen his grip.

Terror claws its way up my throat. I don’t think. I just whip my ukulele over my shoulder and ram it into my attacker’s face.

There’s a violent thwang! followed by a grunt, and I get a little kick of satisfaction. I manage to get one more hit in before the instrument is wrenched from my grip and hits the ground with a thud.

I hear a strange noise, like the pop of something plastic. Then I feel the sharp stab of a needle, and everything goes dark.

ADRIAN

I know something’s gone terribly wrong the instant I pull up at my cabin. Sebastian’s Mercedes is parked out front, and the lights are on inside.

Several of my wolves have a key to my place, but it’s only for emergencies. The fact that Sebastian’s here can’t mean good news.

My wolf stirs as I get out and slowly approach the A-frame. He’s alert, cautious, and uneasy. Something about this feels like a trap.

Sebastian must have heard me pull up, because my pack brother slips outside and waits for me with his hands in his pockets. I catch a whiff of his anxiety, and my wolf whines in solidarity.

There’s a deep cut across Sebastian’s cheek and the start of a bruise.

“What happened to you?” I call.

“I met the business end of a ukulele earlier,” Sebastian drawls, not quite meeting my gaze. It’s normal for less dominant wolves to avoid direct eye contact with their alpha, but it’s unusual for Sebastian.

I raise an eyebrow.

“You’re gonna love me for this.”

The hairs along the back of my neck stand on end. “Love you enough to be okay with you making yourself at home?”

The stench of his anxiety intensifies, which makes my wolf sit up and pay attention.

The woods are quiet — too quiet. It’s as if the trees are holding their breath. Underneath Sebastian’s familiar scent and the stink of exhaust, I detect an unfamiliar smell that causes my stomach to tighten.

It’s deep and rich like incense, mixed with the freshness of rain. But there’s something else there too: the sharp tang of fear.

Not Sebastian’s fear, I realize. This scent belongs to a female.

“Sebastian,” I growl. “What — did you — do ?”

“You said you needed leverage,” my pack brother reminds me.

“And?”

“And I found just the leverage you need.”

My nostrils flare as I drink in that strange, enticing fragrance. I can’t take the suspense any longer.

Shoving past Sebastian, I throw open the front door so hard that it bangs against the opposite wall.

My A-frame isn’t much — just one room for the bed, the couch, a wood-burning stove, a small kitchen, and a dining area. So it’s impossible to miss the chair out of place, which Sebastian has positioned in the very center of the cabin.

It’s also impossible to miss the unconscious brunette with golden skin he’s duct-taped to it.

The female is the source of the unfamiliar scent. She’s human.

Her dark wavy hair has fallen into her eyes, and the choppy ends tease the soft swells of her breasts, which are spilling out over her low-cut tank. Her face is slightly gaunt, but she’s got a lush, full mouth. Her faded jeans have holes in both knees, and her boots have mud on the soles.

When I got out of the marines, I was recruited by a private military contractor to handle some of the dicier operations overseas — primarily in Afghanistan. During my time abroad, I learned to pick up on details that other people might miss — a skill set that saved my life and the lives of my men on more than one occasion.

The female’s wardrobe, combined with the chapped lips, rough and reddened hands, and the stiff lay of the material, tells me this woman has been living out in the elements. And judging by the hungry planes of her face and how brown her shoulders are, she’s been roughing it for a while.

Glancing around the cabin, I see a pile of belongings in the corner: a rumpled flannel, a busted instrument that looks like a miniature guitar, and a set of car keys with one of those handmade keychains that spells out CASSIE in big white beads.

“What’s this?” I ask in a low growl when Sebastian comes up behind me.

“This,” he says, “is Clint McGregor’s daughter.”

Understanding hits me like a brick wall. Fuck . This is what Sebastian meant when he said he’d found leverage — the daughter of the McGregors’ leader.

“I didn’t know he had a daughter.”

“Well, he certainly doesn’t advertise it,” says Sebastian. “She’s human.”

“No shit.”

I drag in a deep breath through my nose, but that does little to clear my head. The female’s scent is all around me, and I’m finding it immensely distracting.

“You kidnapped McGregor’s daughter?”

“Brilliant, eh?”

My wolf snarls, and I whip around so fast that Sebastian takes a step back. A look of terror flashes through his eyes, and he quickly drops his gaze.

“Outside. Now.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. If Sebastian were in wolf form right now, his tail would be between his legs.

I march outside and slam the door shut, stomping down the porch steps to put some distance between us and our hostage. The girl’s knocked out — probably drugged — but I’m not going to risk it. I’m pretty sure even her human ears would be able to hear the hell I’m about to unleash on my lieutenant.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I snarl, barely resisting the urge to shift and put Sebastian on his back.

His brow wrinkles in a mixture of concern and frustration, and I can see the war raging within him. “I . . . thought you’d be pleased.”

“In what world would I be pleased that you kidnapped our enemy’s daughter? Do you know what position this puts me in?”

“A bloody good one, I reckon,” Sebastian shoots back, jutting out his chin. “You finally have something to hold over Clint and those blasted bears to make them fall in line.”

But my pack brother has misjudged the situation — badly.

“Clint McGregor would sacrifice his own brothers if he thought it would do him any good,” I bellow, thrusting my finger toward the cabin. “What makes you think he cares if his human daughter lives or dies?”

“She’s meant to mate with the next pack leader. Dane something or another.”

“I don’t care,” I snarl, though the thought of the pretty brunette inside being mated to Dane Murphy sets my teeth on edge for reasons I can’t explain.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow.

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” I grit out. My wolf is dangerously close to the surface, and it’s taking all of my willpower not to shift. “You’ve gone and started a war that we can’t finish.”

“We were already fighting a war,” Sebastian fires back. “Look around, mate. The McGregors showed up at Damon’s lodge and mauled him half to death. They kidnapped Fallon and did god only knows what to Nick’s mate —”

“I’m fully aware of the McGregors’ crimes,” I growl. My skin itches with the urge to shift, and my temples throb at the mere mention of what those females went through at the hands of the Red Feather Lake pack — the wolves Clint was working for.

Sebastian averts his gaze out of respect, but he doesn’t back down. He just stares at a spot over my left shoulder, a muscle working in his jaw. “Clint McGregor might not have been the one to hurt those she-wolves, but his little side business allowed Marcus’s pack to rape and abuse dozens of females.”

My wolf growls at the memory of what we found at that compound: she-wolves in cages who’d been ripped from their packs and forced to breed with Marcus’s wolves.

I take several slow, deep breaths, trying to reason with my wolf. Sebastian might have had a serious lapse in judgment when he kidnapped that girl, but in his mind, it was justified — a small price to pay to prevent further atrocities.

“If I hurt that girl . . .” I begin, but my wolf snarls at the thought.

He won’t allow it.

I swallow. “If I harm even one hair on her head, then I’m just as bad as he is.”

Sebastian shrugs. “This is war, mate.”

His meaning hangs in the air between us as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud: There is always collateral damage in war, and that’s what this girl is to him. It’s moral reasoning I’m intimately familiar with, but if there’s one thing my time overseas taught me, it’s that any cost of human life is too high.

“This can’t go on,” he says quietly. “I think you’ve known that for a while.”

I don’t respond. He isn’t wrong, and yet my wolf is glowering at Sebastian as though he’s the enemy.

As alpha, it’s my duty to protect my pack, and by allowing the McGregors to exist on the edge of our territory, I’ve been putting them at risk.

Every time Clint’s bears do something to provoke my wolves, it triggers my alpha instinct to attack. To kill. The beast in me craves the McGregors’ blood, but I know from experience that war only brings suffering — on both sides.

For years, I’ve been reluctant to put my wolves in the crossfire, but the time has come to act.

“You have the girl now,” Sebastian says, turning toward his SUV. “It’s your choice what you do with her.”