Page 4 of Kidnapped by the Wolf (Gold Creek Wolves)

CHAPTER FOUR

CASSIE

I come to feeling as though I spent the night throwing back tequila shots.

My head is pounding. My throat is scratchy, and my muscles ache like I took a beating.

The hard back of a wooden chair is digging into my shoulder blades, and my arms are twisted behind me at an odd angle.

I try to move, but my upper body is duct-taped, and my wrists are bound with what feels horribly like zip-ties.

My eyes fly open, and I look around. I’m in a cabin I don’t recognize. Exposed wooden boards slope toward the ceiling, and light is streaming in from the wall of windows along the back side of the A-frame.

They look like the sort of windows that don’t actually open. A sliding door leads out onto an enormous deck with sprawling views of the woods beyond. There’s only one other exit I can see — the door my chair is facing.

The cabin furnishings are high end but simple. There’s a bed and a couch along one wall — a tiny kitchen and dining area along the other. There’s not a scrap of art in the place, unless you count the huge silvery pelt lying in front of the hearth.

Everything is either wood or the same bland shade of charcoal: classy but boring. The cabin is also immaculately clean.

It probably belongs to a serial killer.

Panic claws its way up my chest, but just then, the front door bursts open, ushering in a cold gust of air.

A huge man stands framed in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowed in a hard look that sends a shiver down my spine.

Unlike the British guy who grabbed me, this man strikes me as ex-military: short haircut, practical boots, tight-fitting utility pants. The only part of him that doesn’t fit the bill is the five o’clock shadow that defines his sharp, chiseled jawline.

Every inch of him looks as though it was hewn from solid stone, from his broad shoulders and pecs to his perfectly sculpted arms. Although it can’t be more than forty degrees outside, he’s dressed in a light-blue T-shirt that sets off his bronzed skin.

He has to be a shifter.

Shifters don’t feel the cold the way humans do.

That’s when I realize that I’m in deep shit. The man who grabbed me, this guy — they’re both wolves. And if there’s one thing of value my father taught me, it’s that wolf shifters are fucking dangerous.

“Who are you?” I growl, baring my teeth.

He doesn’t answer me right away, though a muscle in his jaw ticks.

I glance at the British guy, who’s standing in the doorway a few paces behind him. British guy looks frustrated, and I get the feeling the two of them were just arguing.

Maybe they were arguing about what to do with me.

My stomach turns sour at the thought. I’m Clint McGregor’s daughter, and these guys are wolf shifters. Whatever they have planned, it can’t be good.

“What do you want?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. I won’t give these two the satisfaction of thinking I’m scared — even if I am. “Money?”

Military guy’s expression is completely unreadable, but the British dude gives an audible snort.

So it’s not money they’re after. That sick feeling in my stomach intensifies.

I’m guessing they kidnapped me to send some kind of message, but I decide to keep my mouth shut. There’s a chance, however small, that they don’t know who my father is.

“Right,” says the British guy, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Leave him to what ? I wonder.

That muscle in military guy’s jaw clenches harder, and my curiosity intensifies. He takes a step inside and shuts the door in the other shifter’s face.

Panic swamps me. He’s standing between me and the exit, and he looks angry.

“What are you going to do with me?” I ask. This time, I’m unable to keep the slight tremor out of my voice.

Military guy doesn’t answer. He strides past me toward the wood stove, opening the door to tamp down the coals inside before adding another couple of logs.

Then he straightens up, and I realize for the first time just how tall he is. Tall and lean. The man is pure muscle and power — a terrifying combination for an already lethal shifter.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, not meeting my gaze.

I blink. Of all the things I’d been expecting, the shifter inquiring about my last meal wasn’t one of them.

“I’m not hungry.”

He lets out a slow, irritated huff. “Suit yourself.”

He crosses to the small kitchen and pulls out bread, sandwich meat, lettuce, and tomato. His tanned forearms flex as he produces a honing rod and begins to sharpen a long chef’s knife.

I swallow.

For several minutes, the only sound is the clink of his blade against the steel, and my stomach winds into tighter and tighter knots. The flash of metal, the quick movement of his hands — it’s strangely hypnotic to watch.

Then everything goes quiet as he fixates on the tomato, cutting it into perfect slices.

This wolf definitely plans on killing me. I have to find a way out.

While my captor assembles his sandwich, I take another look around at the small A-frame. There’s a narrow wall behind the refrigerator that I hadn’t noticed before — probably concealing a bathroom. Maybe that room has a window that actually opens.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts of escape that I don’t immediately notice he’s moved from the cutting board. In four quick strides, he’s standing in front of me, holding a plate like some kind of peace offering.

My stomach growls noisily. All I’ve had to eat today is a bowl of lumpy oatmeal and some black coffee.

“Eat,” he says, bringing the sandwich up near my mouth. “You look like you’ve missed a few meals.”

“You’re going to feed me?” I ask, simultaneously annoyed and self-conscious that he can tell I haven’t had enough to eat.

The corner of his mouth twitches, but it’s so brief I might have imagined it. “You got a better idea?”

“How about you cut these damned zip-ties and I can feed myself?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

I grind my back molars together. I’ll have to try another tack.

“What is it that you’re planning to do with me?” I ask again.

A dark look sweeps across the shifter’s face, and he scowls. “I’m not sure yet.”

This strikes me as an odd answer to my question, but I don’t press the issue.

Then I notice a small pile of my belongings on the floor by the entrance. My flannel is bunched up beneath my ukulele, and my car keys are resting on top.

The neck of my ukulele is cracked, and the body is completely crushed. I used it to bludgeon the British guy when he attacked me in the alley. It didn’t do much to wound the shifter, but it was satisfying nonetheless.

My heart sinks. I found the ukulele at a garage sale for cheap, and I can’t afford a new one. But if I don’t figure out a way to escape these wolves, a broken uke will be the least of my problems.

Then I get an idea.

“Did your goon happen to grab any supplies out of my bus after he grabbed me and threw me in his trunk?”

The wolf gives me a blank look.

I’m making this up as I go along, but I still feel the heat creep into my cheeks. “Any feminine supplies?”

I see it the instant he understands, because the shifter’s carefully controlled expression undergoes a series of bizarre changes. His brows shoot up, and his brown eyes widen.

He clears his throat, swallowing twice. “Do you . . . require supplies?”

I give a jerky half nod. Idiot .

“For the record, Sebastian’s not my goon . He’s one of my pack brothers.”

I roll my eyes. I know all about the so-called “brotherhood” among shifters. That bond is just an excuse for the bears in my father’s pack to look the other way when one of them does something truly fucked up.

“I’m pretty sure ‘goon’ is the correct word for someone who drugs and kidnaps people.”

The wolf clenches his jaw as he turns away, pulling out his phone and bringing it to his ear. He goes to the door and steps outside, speaking swiftly to whoever’s on the other end of the line.

While he’s distracted, I scoot my chair a few inches to the right and crane to look over my shoulder.

I was right about the narrow wall concealing a bathroom. Light is trickling in through the doorway, which means there must be a window in there.

The wolf reappears a moment later, looking extremely uncomfortable. “Supplies are en route,” he says quietly.

“You have people for that?”

“I have wolves for that.” He raises an eyebrow. “Wolves who are more . . . familiar with that sort of thing.”

“You mean female?”

“Yes.”

I nod, chewing on my bottom lip. I’d half hoped he might leave me alone to go fetch my “supplies” himself, but no such luck. Maybe wolf shifters aren’t as dumb as bears.

He crosses to the table and pulls out a chair, slicing his sandwich neatly in two and taking a huge bite. Silence stretches between us as he chews, and my stomach growls loudly.

Part of me wishes I’d taken him up on his offer of food. Although he’s been reasonable so far, I have no way of knowing if or when he’ll make the offer again.

Before he’s even finished with his sandwich, my captor rises to his feet. A second later, there’s a knock at the door.

I hate that shifters have such keen senses. As a human, I’m always at a disadvantage.

He opens the door, and I raise my eyebrows. On the porch stands a timid-looking woman with long red hair clutching a paper sack.

“Hey, Adrian,” she says uncertainly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and peering around the enormous wolf.

When she spots me, her hazel eyes widen. Unlike the females in my father’s pack, she doesn’t sneer at me. Her dainty nostrils flare slightly, and a look of curiosity sparks in her eyes.

“Thanks, Remy,” the wolf mutters, taking the bag from her gingerly.

The female shifter averts her gaze and nods, a shy smile puckering her lips. “Anytime.”

The wolf — Adrian — closes the door and runs a hand through his short brown hair.

A resigned sigh escapes him, and he drops the bag at my feet. I can see a telltale pink box poking out of the top, and I have to hide my smirk.

“Is she . . .” I don’t know why I’m even asking, but I can’t stop the words from spilling out of my mouth. “Your mate?”

“No.” Adrian doesn’t seem offended by the question — merely surprised. “She’s mated to one of my wolves.”

My stomach does a funny little swoop, but something about his language grates on my nerves. My wolves — like he owns them or something.

That’s when it hits me.

He does.

Adrian is not just any wolf shifter. He’s Adrian Evans — alpha of the Gold Creek pack. And I’m his prisoner.

The moment the realization washes over me, I hear the soft shink of a knife being drawn from its sheath, and my whole body goes rigid.

I’ve been kidnapped by the Gold Creek pack, and I just made their alpha ask one of his wolves to fetch me feminine hygiene products.

It would be funny if I wasn’t in such deep shit — if I wasn’t completely at his mercy.

Adrian pauses as if he senses my unease, deliberately slowing his movements as he kneels before me and takes the blade to the duct tape binding my ankles.

The tendons in his neck stand out as he lowers his head, carefully maneuvering the knife to avoid cutting my skin.

I’m not sure why, but the sight of the powerful male on his knees in front of me causes my core to tighten, and an undeniable liquid heat blooms between my legs.

Get it together, Cass , I tell myself. There’s fucked up, and then there’s getting turned on by your kidnapper fucked up.

Adrian’s gaze flickers to my own, and for the first time I notice that his eyes have little flecks of gold in them. The golden flecks seem to glow against the brown as he stares at me, and for one horrible moment, I worry the alpha somehow heard my thoughts.

But then he stands and comes around behind me, holding my wrist between his fingers as he takes the knife to my zip-ties. I shiver at the light contact, and then the zip-ties clatter to the floor.

“Bathroom’s just through there,” he says in a low, strangled voice.

I nod and grab the bag of tampons at my feet before fleeing into the bathroom. I slam the door shut behind me, heart hammering against my ribs.

It’s now or never.

Adrian’s bathroom is small but just as clean as the rest of the cabin. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a cleaner bathroom.

Two pristine white towels are hanging from a bar beside the door. There’s a glass-encased shower and a pedestal sink, and — above the toilet — a window that looks just large enough for me to shimmy through.

Setting the tampons on the edge of the sink, I lock the door and slip off my boots to avoid making a sound. Knotting the laces at the ends, I hang them around my neck and climb up onto the toilet seat.

I can practically taste freedom as I reach for the window latch and pull it toward me. To my immense relief, it unfastens silently, and cold air hits my skin.

Taking a deep breath, I carefully wedge the window open and brace my elbows on the sill. I pull my weight onto my forearms, and for half a second, my lower half dangles as I summon all my strength to shimmy through the gap.

I’m free , I think. I actually did it!

But then the bathroom door bangs open, and strong arms lock around my thighs.