Page 34 of Claimed By the Werewolf Boss
I flinch at the response. That man’s voice sounds familiar. It tickles something at the back of my head, like I’ve heard it recently. The sound of a podcast turning up a little higher stops any possible memory, some dudes complaining about how modern media is infecting men with femininity.
When I swallow, my throat hurts. The rest of me aches from whatever else has happened, but when I rub my ankles together, I’m still in my sweatpants. My hands are tied behind my back, but not tightly. Like they don’t think I’ll try to get out of here.My head is wrapped in some sort of scarf. It tastes like silk or satin when I lick it. Something about the slinky material is nice around my face, but every screech of a chair reminds me that this isn’t a fun time.
This is a fucking nightmare.
I’ve been kidnapped.
A chill rushes down my spine.
I’ve written scenes like this before. Dark romance is something that I’ve found comfort in, a safe place to explore the desires I’ve had since I realised what sex was. For years, dreams of being kidnapped and held as a sexy captive have titillated me because I never thought anyone would care enough about me to go to such extreme measures. My intensity around relationships, the way I cling onto people, has always been risky. Coming up with excuses for friends who used me in high school, to bed partners who were terrified at how I felt about them.
Valentino’s the only person who’s been able to meet me stride for stride that way.
Obviously, I realise this is a crime. And this is not how I would want my dream abduction to go. For one, my imaginary stalker isn’t here. They don’t listen to shitty podcasts. They know I don’t like to be humiliated that way, too. Fuck, even Valentino understood that when I said it to him, but this manisn’t trying to turn me on. He’s trying to scare the shit out of me. I really should be taking this more seriously.
Maybe making some mental notes will help. If I can assess the situation better, I can decide what their plan is for me. Given the security around the villa, I don’t think this is a casual pick or even a response from the pickpocket the other day. This was not an opportunistic snatch and grab. I also know that of the demographics for kidnapping in Europe, my body type doesn’t usually fit the bill. There are exceptions to everything of course, but I’m hopeful this isn’t a sex trafficking situation either.
I twist my wrists until I can pull one hand through the loose ties. My fingers smooth over the material, it’s not nylon rope or really rope of any kind. From the raw, fraying edge, I think it might be a torn shirt or sheet. They could have torn up my bedding to use as a last-minute binding. Underneath me is a cheap, padded cushion based on how it squishes under my fingers.
They said I’m in a cage. What size is it? I slide my feet around slowly until I can find each of the edges. It’s not very big. My legs are still bent, and I barely have to stretch to touch both corners. I have a choice now. My hands are free. Do I stay like this, or do I pull off my blindfold? It’s a risk, and I probably shouldn’t doanything to upset the guys who took me, but if they are going to be bad at their jobs, that’s not my fault.
Quietly, and sending out a prayer to every deity I know, I slide the silken scarf down until it covers my throat. My eyes flutter as they adjust to the light. We are in some sort of warehouse office. There are a few empty desks, a large window looking out into the open – based on the glow of the morning sunlight warming the room – and two men sitting on computer chairs watching a video recording of a podcast.
“And let’s not forget our sponsor for today’s show, SupraNutrients. Let me tell you, this shit’s amazing. I put a scoop of their MaxMan protein powder in my morning protein shake before I hit the gym every day. My hair is thicker, my dick game is better if that’s even possible, and I swear on my life, guys, it brings the high-quality ladies right to my door. The testosterone coursing through me is at 110%. This absolutely works and will make you the alpha male you want to be.”
I think I’m going to throw up.
There is enough space for me to sit up in the cage. This is more like a kennel for one of those massive security-type dogs. That poor pup is hopefully on duty if I’m taking up their house. I think that might break me more than anything if I found out they hurt a dog. Hurting an innocent pet should put you in one of those horrible bottom rings of Dante’s Inferno.
“What’s taking him so long, Luca? I thought you said he actually gave two shits about the fattie. We’ve been here for hours,” the man on the right complains.
Hours? Hours! Do I have a concussion? After a strangulation, victims usually wake up in a few seconds to a couple of minutes. It’s long enough to be tied up, but not much else. I rack my brain for what could have happened. I don’t feel woozy or nauseous, my throat fucking hurts, and I imagine my face looks a bit roughed up. Did I hallucinate the werewolf?
“Tino won’t rush in, even if he can find us,” Luca says. He looks back at me, and I recognise him as the creep from my first morning at the villa. Our eyes meet, his flicker red and I swear his light blond hair turns lighter. “He’s got to think of his mate first.”
I’ve been around the block when it comes to romance genres. There isn’t too much I shy away from. I recognise the way he uses mate from a science-fiction novel I read a few years ago. It was a totally wild book, but hot as fuck. The author threw around the word mate about every other page. And these guys aren’t British or Australian, based on their accents. They don’t mean friend.
“Did you drug me?” I croak.
“Just a little to keep you out.” He pinches his fingers together to demonstrate, as if that makes me feelany better. “You’re a hard nut to crack, ya know that, Walker?”
“What’s to crack? I teach science to middle schoolers,” I deadpan.
“And you write some really fucked up porn,” the other guy snarls like a dog. “You ruined my relationship.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand how they figured that out. I’ve always kept Remi Roman out of my personal life. My life as an author has never touched my life as a teacher in the ten years I’ve been doing both. The few podcasts I’ve done have been audio only, and my profile pictures are anonymous illustrations I’ve commissioned. All the world knows about Remi is that she’s white and lives on the East Coast.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve got some connections, a few people back in Tolson who were happy to dig a little deeper into your finances,” Luca explains. “The dots connected themselves. And poor Nicky here has been devastated since his woman started debasing herself with books like yours. She’s an addict, thinks she’s better than him.”
“Okay, for one, reading adult romances doesn’t debase her or whatever fucking shit that is. If I had to guess based on his language and the absolute trashyou’ve been listening to, Nicky here is being a fucking dickhead piece of shit to a lovely person, and she dumped his ass because she knew she could find a better person who respects her.”
I realise too late I should have kept my mouth shut. I’m not sure what’s got into me, really. This brazen attitude is completely out of character for me, but I can’t fucking stand when people hate on romance. It’s changed my life in a million different ways, and all of them for the better. The number of readers who have sent me emails and messages about relating to my characters or finally feeling seen in books is unbelievable.
These guys don’t get to dictate the narrative.
But they have kidnapped me and are holding me hostage in a dog crate.
