Page 2 of Kidnapped By the Wolf

We both know what I have to do — what I should have done the instant Clint McGregor began encroaching on my territory. If I’d acted six years ago when this first started, it never would have gotten this bad. But I was younger then, and I didn’t want to start a war.

These last couple of years, Clint’s bears have gotten bolder. They’ve been expanding their drug trade, picking fights with my wolves, and even attacking members of my pack. Last year, theykidnapped one of our females, and I had to get the pack involved to shut down a she-wolf trafficking ring.

With so many of my pack brothers settling down and starting families, the stakes are just too high. I can’t allow this to go on.

“I know you don’t want to put him down —” Sebastian begins.

“It’s not that,” I snap.

I have no problem taking lives when it’s for the greater good. I fought a never-ending war for my country, but I don’t likestartingthem.

“If I kill Clint, another of his bears is just going to take his place.”

Sebastian is smart — smart enough that all the top tech companies pay him a mint to pen-test their latest software. He knows what I’m not saying.

If I provoke the McGregors by killing their leader, it’s our pack that will pay the price.

“So what’s the alternative?” Sebastian asks, cutting in front of a slow-moving car and sticking his middle finger out the window.

I drag in a breath to calm my wolf. He hates not being in control. And the thought of the McGregors going after one of his own sends his protective instincts into overdrive.

“Devlin says if I don’t want to start a war with the McGregors, which we both agree is the path of mutually assured destruction, then I need a way to force Clint to behave.”

“And what did he suggest? A marriage to unite the kingdoms? Going to take a bear sow for a bride, are you?”

I grit my teeth, fighting off a fresh surge of annoyance as Sebastian rides the ass of a minivan going seventy in the fast lane.

“Leverage.”

CASSIE

My fingersand toes are already frozen as I pick my way down to the river. On most days, the gentle babble of the creek calms my nerves and soothes my soul. This morning, however, the light layer of frost coating my windshield, the trees, and the tall blades of grass fills me with a fresh surge of anxiety.

It’s only October, but in the mountains, that means the temperature is already getting down below freezing. Last night, it was so cold in the back of the bus that I finally broke down and cranked the heat for a few minutes.

I’m not going to be able to survive living like this much longer.

Crouching down in the frozen mud along the bank, I shudder as I plunge my shirt into the frigid water. My hands throb for a moment and then go numb as I scrub the thin material. Already they look like worker’s hands — nothing soft or feminine about them.

Doing a load at the Laundromat in town would keep my skin from turning raw, but Penny Pincher Wash-O-Mat is wolf territory.

It’s not as though I’m worried one of them might recognize me. My father doesn’t advertise the fact that his only cub is a weak, pathetic human. The problem is his loud-mouth bears. One slip from Callum or Gator or another of the McGregor assholes, and I’d have a target on my back.

Shivering, I pull my shirt out of the water and slap it onto a rock. I have a whole bag full of dirty clothes, but my hands are stinging so badly that I decide to focus on socks and underwear.

I can live with dirty jeans.

Wringing out my sodden clothes, I spread them out on the rocks to dry and walk the twenty yards back to my home on wheels. It’s an orange Volkswagen bus — rough condition — that smells like Nag Champa incense and corn chips no matter what I do.

I inherited it from my mother — a hippie who eschewed animal products, commercial deodorant, and birth control, apparently.

The bus is the one thing she left behind when she fled my father’s pack. Well, unless you count me.

Reaching into the passenger seat, I grab my thermos of instant coffee and the jar of oatmeal I let soak overnight. Wrapping myself in a flannel, I find a patch of morning sunshine and curl up in the grass to enjoy my breakfast while I try to come up with a plan.

I’ve only got eight bucks to my name, and I’m running low on supplies — groceries, gas, and propane, which I need to operate my little camp stove. I’ll get some cash selling my jewelry at the art walk this afternoon, but it won’t be enough to revamp my wardrobe, which currently consists of t-shirts, jeans, and a few ratty flannels.

It was July when I left my father’s land in the dead of night, taking only a garbage bag full of clothes and whatever I could cram into the back of my bus. Like mother, like daughter, I guess — though crucially, I did not leave a bewildered six-year-old behind to be raised by an abusive bear shifter.

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