Rescued by the Wolf

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

About the Author

Discover more paranormal romance from Entangled…

The Werewolf Wears Prada

Playing the Witch’s Game

The Alpha’s Temporary Mate

Baby’s Got Bite

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Sasha Summers. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

644 Shrewsbury Commons Ave

STE 181

Shrewsbury, PA 17361

rights@entangledpublishing.com

Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Candace Havens

Cover design by Kelly Martin

Cover photography by pio3 and Elena Schweitzer/Shutterstock

deagreez1/DepositPhotos

ISBN 978-1-64063-199-1

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition August 2017

Previously released on Entangled’s Covet imprint

Chapter One

Fuck, Mal growled as they slammed him against the stone wall, making every shredded muscle and broken bone throb with pain. His wolf paced, wanting to fight—to make Mal fight. But now, in human form, it wouldn’t be much of one.

You look like shit, Mal, Dickhead was laughing.

Yeah, get some sleep man, Numb Nuts added.

Can’t. Got a date. He spit the blood from his mouth.

Date? Dickhead glared.

You think you’re funny? Numb Nuts asked, sighing.

Depends. Is it your sister or your mate that’s bringing me dinner? Didn’t notice it takes her a while? He smiled at Numb Nuts.

Shut the fuck up. Numb Nuts slammed his fist into his face.

Mal shook his head, still smiling, ignoring the pop of cartilage. His nose was broken. Again. Not that it mattered. The blade buried in his shoulder was the problem. He needed to dig it out. The silver was already weakening him. But, damn, he couldn’t resist taunting the stupid sons of bitches when he had the chance. His wolf needed it, too. They wanted to break him. But they needed to know that was never going to happen.

Leave him. Dickhead pushed Numb Nuts back.

Mal kept on grinning, knowing that baited the other more than anything. You wouldn’t want to upset the man in charge. Mal nodded, even though the motion radiated pain down his spine until he saw stars.

Numb Nuts was growling, his pupils dilated, his jaw locked. He shook off the hands Dickhead placed on his arm, fastened the thick silver collar around Mal’s neck, and stormed out of the cell. Dickhead followed, pulling the cage door shut behind him. Have fun digging that out, he said.

Mal flipped him off, still grinning.

He waited until the fluorescent lights cut off, glaring at the single bulb in the corner. He’d almost rather it was dark. His wolf could see better in total darkness. And that’s why Cyrus and his pack of wannabe badasses kept the light on. Anything to get under his skin, anything to weaken his resolve, or make his loyalty to Finn and his pack waver.

Fucker, he mumbled, shoving thoughts of Finn and the others aside. He didn’t want to be loyal to them, not anymore. They’d left him for dead, left him with the enemy—made every day since a pain-filled torture-fest courtesy of Cyrus’s sick-as-fuck wolves. But one of the joys of being a werewolf: no choices. A pack was a pack, and Finn was his Alpha. Even if Mal wanted to rip his throat out and challenge that right.

The faint burn of the silver collar around his neck was nothing compared to the fire in his shoulder. The blade had to come out, now. He probed the wound along the ball of the joint, sucked in a deep breath, gritted his jaw, and slid his forefinger and thumb into the severed muscle. The blade had slid deep before they’d broken it off. Now the jagged edge sliced through his fingertips, making it harder to grip the metal and almost impossible to hold.

It helped to imagine sliding the blade into one of the Others. It didn’t matter which. But if he could pick, it’d be their motherfucking Alpha, Cyrus. Not his chest. No way that asshole had a heart. Maybe his neck. Or his eye. His eyes were soulless—evil. They haunted Mal when he was sleeping. His eye would be good.

He dropped the blade on the floor and sagged against the stone wall, swallowing back the bile that choked him.

The stairwell lights flipped on then, bright and relentless after Mal had lived in the gloom so long. He had no idea how long he’d been here, only that he had to get out or he’d lose his mind. Mal braced himself, trying not to react. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

There had to be cameras here, somewhere. They’d be watching him. And now that the silver was out, they’d want to do something else to keep him weak. His gaze wandered around the small room. No sign of any wires or camera, just the damn light in the corner. One room, two large cages. He occupied one. The other had housed four different occupants so far, but none had stayed for long. He was the special one. When they killed him, and he knew they all wanted to, it wasn’t going to be quick and easy. He’d wish he’d bled out hanging upside down in that damn tree—wish the Others had left him there to burn up. Instead, his pack, his brothers, had left him behind. With the enemy.

Stop kicking, a voice echoed. Now, dammit.

Mal heard another voice, a woman’s voice—garbled and desperate.

He sighed, resting his head. Looks like he had a new roommate. Sucks to be them.

The Big Guy, a wall of a man with a piss-poor attitude and brick punch, appeared. A woman hung under his arm, kicking and flailing and trying her best to scream past the rag shoved in her mouth.

The Big Guy kicked open the stall next to Mal, tossed the woman in, and slammed it shut.

The woman lay there, no doubt stunned from the impact. She was human, he and his wolf could tell that much. A woman that smelled good. Clean.

She tugged the rag from her mouth. Jerk!

The Big Guy snorted and headed back up the stairs.

Mal laughed then. Jerk? She had no idea what the hell was about to happen to her. Unlike the other four… Three. One had been a plant—an attempt to stir some sort of inner hero-complex. It had almost worked. He closed his eyes, shutting out everything else. Healing was all the mattered. The silver was out, but the goddamn collar would still slow things down. And he didn’t know how much time he had until they came back for him. He had to get his shit together before then.

The lights flipped off, the door shut, and there was silence.

Hello? she asked.

He didn’t say a thing.

I saw you, so I know you’re there. She sat up, hissing and covering her leg with both hands.

He glanced her way, the waver of her breath and unsteady beat of her heart too real to be a ploy. She was in pain. And scared. And not his problem.

No chance you’re a doctor? she asked.

He was no doctor. He shut his eyes again, but his wolf… His wolf refused to shut her out. Dammit.

My leg’s bleeding. She tried to move and cried out, the sound echoing off the walls. Bad.

His wolf paced, wanting him to do something. He ignored the wolf and the girl, his only focus on healing his nose. Then the gouge in his shoulder. The muscles along his side had been pummeled repeatedly, bruising the tissue fibers and crushing the nerve endings. It would be easier if he could change—his wolf form would heal quickly—and come back stronger. But if he could shift, he wouldn’t be here, stuck in a cage. It wasn’t the cage or the chain holding him, it was the silver. If he could be silver-free, he could get out. His wolf was too strong to be held. And Cyrus knew as much.

Fine. Okay. I’m bleeding, and I have no idea where I am. Her voice dropped, the words spilling out of her like a stream of consciousness. She slid into the light, her breathing accelerating. She sagged against the bars, sucking air deep into her lungs before lifting her hands off her leg. This is bad. Panic edged her voice. Too much blood.

The wolf prodded him until he gave up. His eyes popped open, assessing the woman. The effect she had on his wolf was too potent. Maybe he’d been in the dark too long, away from women and life and soap… But her scent grabbed him and his wolf by the throat and shook his senses awake. It had been a long time since he’d felt something other than fury or pain. Too long. She didn’t fit here, didn’t belong. The others had an air of futility about them, a loss of fight or hope. But she wasn’t broken yet, even if she was bleeding out all over the floor. Even with a bruised face, she was something to look at.

He sniffed, the scent of her blood flooding him. Your thigh? he asked.

She jumped, sniffing, pressing her hand over her thigh then hissing. Y-yes.

A tourniquet. She needed something to stop the bleeding. Soon. Are you wearing a belt? he asked.

What? She blinked, trying to see him.

He was glad of the shadows then. Naked, chained, and scarred to hell, he’d only upset her more. A belt? he repeated.

She shook her head. No.

His gaze traveled over her. Boots. Jeans. A T-shirt. A cotton hoodie. You need to stop the bleeding.

She stilled, her gaze meeting his. She nodded slowly. Okay. But she didn’t move. Clearly, she saw enough of him to react. The picture he presented was hardly reassuring. Her breathing grew thready, her heart kicked into overdrive… Which wouldn’t help the bleeding problem.

Now, he snapped, which pissed off his wolf.

She jumped, lifting her hands from the wound. Her palms were wet with blood.

Lose the shirt, he said. Tie it tight, above the wound.

She blinked, sitting forward to shrug out of her hoodie. She moved quickly, her gaze returning to him again and again. Are you…are you okay? she asked.

He ran a hand over his shaggy head. I’m fucking great, lady.

She glared at him then, her posture going rigid and her eyes narrowing. She tugged her shirt over her head, seemingly oblivious to her now half-naked state.

Mal, however, was not. Neither was his wolf. He went from disinterested to fully aware of every single damn breath she took and every freaking move she made. Her skin was creamy, the curve of her breasts spilling in abundance over her bra downright breathtaking. What he wouldn’t give to lose himself, face between those gorgeous boobs, the rest of him buried deep inside. His wolf agreed, focusing so intently that Mal was unable to see or hear or think about anything but the woman in the cage.

She twisted her T-shirt and wrapped it around her thigh, crying out as she tugged the fabric tight. She sobbed, falling to her side.

The wolf growled, forgetting about the collar that trapped them. Mal felt it, too—the urge to go to her, even if it didn’t make one damn bit of sense. But the tourniquet wasn’t tight enough. Her blood was still dripping. Tighter, he barked.

She did as he said, her movements short and jerky.

Put on your hoodie, he growled. She was pure temptation, even laying there gasping on the floor. He didn’t want to think about Cyrus or The Big Guy looking at her. Hell, it was better for himself and his wolf if she covered up. Because right now, even chained to the fucking wall, his wolf was barely under control.

...

Olivia lay still, her eyes pressed shut. Maybe this was all some sort of nightmare. Maybe Chase had put something into her drink. Her brother had done it before—he had a weird sense of humor. But this didn’t feel like that. This felt real. And it hurt more than anything had ever hurt.

Still, opening her eyes meant acknowledging where she was.

In a cage. In some basement, tunnel, or underground.

She had no idea where, or what was happening, or why it was happening to her. Only that she was completely alone and scared. No, not scared. Terrified.

She didn’t know what to fear more: the guy in the cage beside her her, or what could come through the door next. She glanced at the man, mostly hidden in shadows. The top of his head and face were visible enough. His eyes remained fixed on her, unnerving, unwavering. The bridge of his nose was swollen, and the skin on his cheek was discolored.

Do you know where we are? she asked, hating the silence of the room and the screaming in her brain. She had to calm down, had to figure this out…

No, he answered. Bleeding’s slowed.

She frowned. How do you know? There was no possible way he could know that.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. I know. Stay still.

Not like I can go anywhere, she muttered, bristling at his tone. She placed her hand on the floor, preparing to push up.

Stay still, he repeated. You move, you’ll start bleeding again.

She lay still. So, you are a doctor?

No.

But I should listen to you? she asked, her control slipping. Some guy in a spooky cage with a chip on his shoulder?

His eyes crinkled again. Your choice.

She stayed where she was. Her leg thrummed in time with her heart, pain radiating into her hip and back and down her leg to her toes. My only choice today. Sit up and bleed or lay in the dirt. She swallowed back tears then. She didn’t like feeling vulnerable or helpless—but that’s exactly what she was. I have pain relievers in my purse. And a phone. And a Taser.

He didn’t say anything.

She didn’t care. But you’re right. I don’t have my purse. She sighed. And, yes, I should have used my Taser.

Wouldn’t have made a difference, he said.

She stared at the darkened stairwell. Maybe. I just froze. I locked up. Seeing Chase like that, blood everywhere. And then, Chase ran off. Her voice broke again. He’d left her. He’d left her, and now she was here, alone and bleeding. Her brother, big and bad and capable of far too many illegal activities, had run away. He left me, she whispered.

The man groaned, almost a growl, and stood.

Olivia lay perfectly still, very glad there were bars separating them. The man paced, a strange metallic clink echoing every step, his attention returning to her again and again. Now that she could see him, she missed the shadows. He looked wild, like a caged animal. And the scars that covered his body, muscled from head to toe, promised he was dangerous—very dangerous. The look in his eyes, the predatory way he moved, the sheer restless energy that rolled off him, all sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

Are you— She stared at him, blinking. Are you chained?

One brow rose, but he didn’t say a word.

He was naked, unarmed, and vulnerable—and chained to a wall? Where was she? And what the hell was going on? She curled into herself, wincing at the pull in her leg. The ground beneath her thigh grew hot and wet.

Will you stay fucking still? His impatience was obvious, his agitation startling her.

Fine, she snapped back, pressing her eyes tightly shut.

The lights came on then, and Olivia forgot about everything. She pushed off the floor and pressed herself into the back corner of the cage, as far away from the door as possible. She ignored his muffled string of expletives and tried not to cry as the massive man that drug her here descended the steps. He was holding a tray as if bringing food to caged people in basements was a normal thing.

He opened the cage, set the tray down, and crossed to her. You’re still bleeding? he asked, tugging her up by one arm.

Olivia swung at him. It was pointless, she knew it, but no one touched her—ever. No matter what.

He slapped her hard, knocking her back against the bars. Knock that shit off. I was going to stitch you up, but maybe I should let you bleed a little longer.

Olivia saw stars—bright, shiny, white stars whirring in front of her eyes. She gripped the bars to keep from falling over. He was going to stitch up her leg? If he thought she was going to let him—

She was lifted into the air and slammed against the ground, knocking the air from her lungs. She coughed, unable to breathe. The stars were back again. And her leg ached.

He took off the T-shirt and she felt dizzy.

That’s a gusher, he said, tearing her pants. You humans need to learn you’re too breakable to try to fight back.

Humans? She didn’t have enough breath to say the word out loud. Not yet.

I’ll get a needle and some thread. Don’t move, he growled, his pupils dilating darkly and his mouth pulling down.

Olivia couldn’t have moved if she wanted to.

Not when the giant left or the door shut or when the guy in the next cage started talking to her.

Don’t move, he repeated, like she was going to jump up and run. You’re bleeding. A lot. Just stay calm and still.

O-okay, she managed, still coughing.

Dammit, he bit back.

The door opened and the giant’s heavy footfalls announced his return. She lay there, her lungs still burning, when he bent over her, tying her wrists with a rope. You move, it’ll hurt worse, the giant grumbled. Hold the light up, he snapped, offering the end of the rope to someone.

Olivia realized they weren’t alone. A young woman was with them, her face sharp and hard. She stared down at Olivia with pure contempt. Why are you sewing her up, Byron? The girl tied the rope to the cage wall, forcing Olivia’s arms taut over her head—stringing her up.

Cyrus says so.

Because? the girl asked.

Byron looked at her. That’s all the reason I need. It’s all the reason you should need, you hear me? Hold her ankles so she doesn’t move.

The girl nodded then, her expression growing wary. Cold fingers gripped Olivia’s ankles and tugged, forcing her leg straight and making her scream.

The girl smiled. She’s so fragile.

Byron grunted, focusing on his work.

Olivia felt the pierce of the needle and swallowed back another cry. She couldn’t escape the pain; it was all there was. Poke, the tug of thread, another poke, more thread. Over and over.

By the time Byron stopped, she was a shaking, sweaty, bloody mess. When he tugged the zipper of her hoodie down, she barely reacted. But his inspection was quick and callous. He had no interest in her, unlike the girl peering over his shoulder.

Not so fragile, the giant said. She has scars. He pointed as he spoke, yanking her jacket zipper down and rolling her to her side. The rope chafed her wrists, pulling skin.

She bit back a groan, catching sight of the man in the cage next to her. He leaned against the wall, no care in the world. But his eyes were hard, staring at her with something hot and angry.

No other injuries, Byron said.

She won’t die? the girl asked.

Byron stood, dropping her hoodie back on top of her. Guess we’ll see. If he keeps her around.

He flipped her over, the ropes popping her