Page 4 of Kidnapped By the Wolf

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’sannoying 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.

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