Page 29 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Eight

Sorcha had never been abducted before.

She did not care for it.

The man was so much stronger than she was, dragging her like she weighed no more than one of Aesop’s kittens. She even scratched at him like a cat, and tried to bite him once, but he shook her so hard that the insides of her skull rattled. In the time it took her to regain her bearings, he had knotted a length of rope around her wrists. Tightly.

Very tightly.

The rope bit at her skin and made her fingertips tingle.

She could still run with her hands bound.

Only he still had hold of her dress at the back, and it bound her as tightly as the ropes, digging into her chest, shallowing her breaths. Did he know she was the Red Cloak? She could not think of another reason to storm her house and haul her away. Fear and confusion whirled inside her, heavily laced with outrage.

“What is this about?” she demanded.

Very well, asked. Very nearly yelped.

“Is it a ransom you want?” she tried again, hoping she sounded a little less like she was wheezing through the panic.

“No use pretending,” he barked.

The Red Cloak.

Bollocks.

“Did the Colle—”

“No more talking. I can smell the stench of magic on you. I know what you did. And you’ll bring her back.”

She blinked.

He wasn’t after the Red Cloak, then?

Now she was more confused than ever.

“Bring who back?”

“My daughter!” he roared. “You’ll tell me where she is or I’ll set the wolves on you.”

“Who is your daughter?” Sorcha asked. “You have the wrong—”

There was no time to ask any more questions, as he had thundered down the steps and around the side, where a horse waited. He was as big as one would imagine a horse needed to be to hold a man with a neck the size of a tree trunk. One hoof was the size of her entire face.

Not a comforting comparison.

Sorcha struggled again. The man only patted his horse, who did not seem any happier about Sorcha’s presence than she was. He shied away, snorting fitfully. “Not for long,” the man told him, with surprisingly gentleness. “I know she stinks.”

Well, that was a bit rude. She had washed the odor of the fighting pits off her already.

And what an odd comment.

“You’ve got the wrong person—”

“Shut it,” he snapped, and tossed her over the horse. She landed on her stomach, with an audible “oof” as the breath knocked out of her. The edge of the saddle dug into her side. Her hair fell out of its pins, tangling with the horse’s thick mane.

Her captor yanked off her shoes and threw them into the yellow gorse.