Page 10 of Kidnapped By the Wolf

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 ashe 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 wolfdefinitelyplans 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. Maybethatroom 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 yourgoonhappen 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. “Anyfemininesupplies?”

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 mygoon. 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.

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