Rosko, Mandy - Mate of the Wolf (Siren Publishing Classic) (4 page)

The single, sharp word struck her hard. Shelley flinched and sat up. It shouldn’t have bothered her. She should have expected this. Just because she’d scratched his belly when he was a wolf didn’t make them friends.

He ran his hand through his bed-haggled hair. “What did I do last night? Exactly.”

They were getting down to business again.

Damn. She was letting too much slip with her emotions. “Uh, nothing much really. You were more like a tame dog than a wolf. I scratched behind your ears a bit, and your foot even thumped against the floor. Can you please take the chain off? It’s starting to irritate my skin. I promise I won’t run anywhere. I’ll even go into town with you.”

She wanted to know which town he was going to. That would tell her where she was.

“You didn’t change me, and I promise I won’t tell anyone what you are. No one would believe me anyway.” That much was true.

His hand left his hair, and his posture became hard and serious. “What else did I do?”

Shelley ran her tongue over her teeth. “I wanted to lie down and relax, so I climbed into your bed. You came in and settled down with me. I scratched your belly. You licked my palm a bit for that.”

He paced. His eyes were far away, as though thinking, yet they contained some of the panic that Shelley had felt earlier. “I didn’t snarl, snap at you, anything that might’ve scared you?”

His silver-gray eyes went back to her. They moved up and down her body, studying her as though she were a priceless gem. Like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“You’re kind of scaring me right now,” she said. “Can you please unlock my chain and let me go?”

He covered his eyes with his hand and muttered something. He took one look at her and shook his head. “No.”

Shelley felt like she’d been slapped. “Why not? I told you I wouldn’t tell anyone, and you didn’t turn me.”

He moved to the other end of the cabin and grabbed a brown leather jacket hanging off the back of a wooden chair. He threw it over his shoulders without looking at her; then he went for the door.

Shelley gave chase as he left the cabin. “Hey, wait a minute! You’re supposed to let me go now!”

He went to an old red Ford truck, opened the door, and lifted himself inside. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“
You’re sorry?
” The chain didn’t have any more slack for her to reach the truck. Lucky him. If it had she might have yanked him out and strangled him. “This is kidnapping, you psycho! You can’t do this!”

He leaned out the window, backing the truck out of its parking spot and swerving to turn. The door to the truck was right in front of her now. She might be able to reach him…

“I’ll return with your breakfast. I’m very sorry.” He reached his hand out, clasped the back of her blond bed-head, and pulled her face forward, meshing her lips to his.

Shelley was shocked into stupidity. She didn’t move even when he released her and drove away.

Chapter Four

Shelley ran back into the cabin. Her eyes scanned for anything breakable, but she found nothing that looked expensive. No porcelain bowls, shiny knickknacks, iPad, nothing. The guy had nothing that looked remotely expensive for her to destroy. Just plain wooden furniture, some of it badly painted and peeling. There were also some rosaries of a similar, bulky wooden design hanging, one on each of the four walls—must be a devoted Catholic or something—but for the sake of her soul, she left them alone.

Still, holy relics aside, she had to vent her anger on something. She had to knock something over, so she settled for the table and chairs. Watching them crash down brought her a temporary satisfaction, but not freedom.

There was a big wooden beam in the middle of the cabin. Her chain was locked around it. She tugged, pulled, and scratched, but it did not weaken. She broke one of her pretty manicured nails instead, but she kept right on trying.

A sob broke out of her throat as she snapped her third nail trying to break free.

That lousy bastard. Well, he’d had his chance. The second she got out of here she was pressing charges. She wouldn’t have before, but now he was dead meat.

Shelley got to her feet. If he wouldn’t let her go, then she’d have to leave on her own. She was in a cabin in the woods. Her kidnapper had to have a hatchet lying around somewhere.

She opened the cupboards and drawers in her search, not caring about his privacy in the least. Screw him.

He had almost nothing. There were only a few more pairs of jeans, some extra T-shirts. No underwear.

Wow. That last part shouldn’t have made her blush.

She shook her head, deciding not to dwell on it and move on.

There was a microwave with a clock on it—it was well past noon despite his offer to get her breakfast—and a tiny fridge. The kind she usually had in her dressing room or trailer, the one that held only drinks and sandwiches.

She opened it and found
Pepsi
cans, but nothing else. Helping herself to one, even though it wasn’t diet, she continued her search.

There was no stove either, but there was a pot and a frying pan. He must do his cooking outside in a fire pit or something. None of the cutlery he had was steel. Only plastic.

There was no way she could use any of it to break the chain.

She found letters under his mattress. They were all addressed to a post office box—at least now she knew where she was; she couldn’t be far from her original camp—and inside there were no male names mentioned, so she still couldn’t identify the man who had her.

As she skimmed them she found that the writers seemed to be friendly enough, but some of the letters contained warnings for him to stay away, while others asked for him—no,
begged
him—to come home. Again, without using his name. Totally frustrating.

There were a few mentions of a woman named Pearl amongst those letters. Apparently it didn’t matter if her name was mentioned, and that brought a spike to Shelley’s blood.

Just what was he hiding from? Or who?

Heavy tires crunching on rocks and twigs sounded in her ears.

The truck? Back already? Shit! She didn’t think she’d been searching for so long. Shelley returned the papers to their envelopes and threw them back under the bed. She turned to do the same to the things she’d moved or knocked over, but then cringed at the mess around her. Everything was in disarray. Everything.

What had seemed like the best way to blow off her anger and get a little revenge now looked like the biggest mistake she’d ever made apart from being in that soap opera.

Should she right the table and chairs? She didn’t have time to do that
and
put the things she’d taken from the cupboards and drawers back the way she’d found them. Few personal possessions as there were, she still didn’t remember exactly how she’d found them.

Whatever. She’d stare him in the eyes and not be afraid for what she’d done. It was his fault for leaving her by herself anyway. She had a good mind to pull the letters back out and place them neatly, face up on his bed, letting him know she’d read them.

Already he was at the door—she could see him through the window beside it, struggling to open it with the brown bags in his arms. She didn’t move to help him.

He got the door open, stepped inside, and stopped. Wide gray eyes scanned the mess. With one brow raised he looked at her. She stood dead center in Ground Zero.

“Find what you were looking for?” His eyes were hard and accusing.

“Since I’m still here, no.” She took a sip from her stolen
Pepsi
can just to piss him off.

He nodded, not pissed like she’d wanted. Damn. Maybe she really should have taken the letters back out.

“All right.”

He set the bags on the floor and turned the table and chairs to their proper positions. He put the bags on the table before folding his clothes back into his dresser. Shelley blushed and looked away as he did so.

She thought he’d yell at her. Be all indignant and intimidating. This silence while he cleaned up and she didn’t help was infinitely worse.

“I’m not going to apologize,” she said as he finished and moved back toward the table. He opened the bags and the scent of sausage, bacon, and eggs floated in the air like beautiful music for the nose.

Shelley’s stomach rumbled in response. God. How long had it been since she’d eaten? He pulled Styrofoam boxes and more plastic cutlery from one bag, and the delectable smell thickened.

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” he muttered, reminding her of what they’d been talking about.

From the other bag, he pulled out bananas, a carton of orange juice, and a bag of Granny Smith apples. “Figured you would enjoy some fruit with your breakfast.”

“You mean lunch?”

“Eggs can be eaten at any time of day. Here’s for your ankle.”

He tossed something at her. She caught it and looked down at the label. A squeeze bottle of lotion. According to the label it promised to both hydrate and soothe sensitive skin.

How very…sweet.

Shelley shook her head. No, no, no, that thought did not just pass through her brain.

Safer topic, safer topic. Like, how was he able to buy her breakfast when it appeared as though he barely had enough money to live on?

Then he opened one of the boxes, revealing two eggs, sunny-up, sausage, bacon, brown toast with those little jam packets, topped with twin golden pancakes, and more packets with syrup and butter.

God. She was starving. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had pancakes, let alone buttered toast and eggs with the yellows. They were too fattening.

He held out a plastic fork for her, and she took it, sat down, and dug in. Her ankle could wait.

Hunched over her food as she was, she didn’t see what her kidnapper was doing until he set a plastic cup down beside her and poured the orange juice inside. A tiny Styrofoam plate with the apple slices and another container of caramel sauce came next.

He must have had a real knife hidden somewhere to slice the apple. She’d have to remember that.

But who cared about that right now? He’d just gotten her a feast for breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruits. She’d never be able to eat it all, but she was going to do her damndest to try.

He was trying to take care of her, was being nice to her, and it annoyed her to no end. She didn’t want to soften toward him like she was doing when he was a playful wolf. He was keeping her here against her will, and he had to know that just because he brought her this wonderful, totally amazing, breakfast didn’t mean she’d forgive him.

She pushed away the little plate of green apple slices. “I only eat Royal Gala.”

He paused as he sat down to his own eggs. “What?”

Shelley grabbed a syrup packet for her pancakes and peeled it open. She didn’t look at him. “I hate Granny Smith. They’re sour. Disgusting.”

She felt rather than saw his confused blink. “Oh, well, there’s caramel to go with them if you like.”

She slammed her hand on the table, and her juice cup jumped but didn’t spill, miraculously. She wanted him fuming. Yelling. At least that way she could yell back at him without feeling guilty. “Stop being nice! It’s irritating.”

“Irritating?”

“You’re kidnapping me. You’re not supposed to be nice.” Because when he was nice she was at ease around him, felt bad for going through his things and didn’t mind so much that he’d kissed her, which was another thing she should be pissed about but wasn’t.