Chapter 4: Wolf-napped

The lock clicks.

That final, metallic sound seals me inside this beast of a car with a man who could snap my neck without breaking a sweat.

"Open the door!" I shriek, hammering my fist against the tinted glass. "You can't do this! This is kidnapping!"

Tyler Raxon Raven doesn't flinch. He sits in the leather seat like a king on a throne, utterly unbothered by my panic. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't speak. His finger taps a slow rhythm on his knee—the same rhythm he was tapping in the club.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Like he has all the time in the world.

"Are you deaf?" I lunge toward him, grabbing the lapel of his suit jacket. The fabric is expensive—probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. "I said let me go!"

His hand shoots out.

He doesn't hit me. He doesn't shove me. He simply catches my wrist in a grip that feels like a steel manacle. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, he peels my fingers off his jacket one by one. Then he releases my hand like I'm something distasteful.

"Touch me again without permission," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that scrapes against my bones, "and I will break your fingers. One by one."

I scramble back against the door, clutching my wrist. His eyes finally meet mine. They aren't just cold. They're dead. The grey of a tombstone on a winter morning.

"Sit," he commands. "And shut up. Your voice is grating on my nerves."

I open my mouth to argue.

"Sit."

The word cracks like a whip. The Alpha command in it hits me like a physical force. My wolf—still awake, still pacing—whimpers and forces my body to obey. I sink into the seat, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache.

He nods, satisfied, and turns his attention to the window.

The car pulls away from the curb, smooth and silent. Too silent. I can't even hear the engine. The world outside the tinted windows slides past—streetlights, buildings, people who have no idea I'm being kidnapped right in front of them.

"Where are we going?" I whisper, my defiance crumbling into terror.

"To the only place where no one can hear you scream," he replies flatly, still not looking at me.

My stomach drops.

The ride is a blur of speed and silence. I try the door handle again. Locked. I try the window controls. Disabled. I even consider throwing myself at the driver's partition, but there's a solid barrier of bulletproof glass separating us from the front.

I'm trapped.

We wind up cliffside roads, leaving the city lights far below. The ocean appears on our right, black and endless under the night sky. The drop-off is steep—hundreds of feet down to jagged rocks and churning water. We're heading to the richest part of the city, where Alphas build their fortresses on cliffsides and mountaintops. Territory that screams power.

The part where nobody asks questions. Where nobody hears you scream.

"My friends will report me missing," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "They saw you take me."

Tyler doesn't even glance at me. "Your friends abandoned you the moment they realized who I am. They won't say a word." He takes another drag of his cigarette. "And even if they did, who do you think the police will believe? A nobody Omega, or me?"

He's right. I know he's right. The police in this city are half wolves anyway, and most of them answer to the major packs.

My phone buzzes in my clutch.

I freeze. It's midnight. The only reason anyone calls at midnight is disaster.

I fumble for the device, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. The screen lights up: **St. Francis Hospital.**

No.

No, no, no.

Aunt Marie.

"Answer it," Tyler says. He's watching me now, his eyes tracking every movement. He was lighting a cigarette, and now the flame illuminates the sharp planes of his face.

I answer, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I can barely breathe. "Hello?"

"Ms. West?" It's Dr. Brennan. His voice is grim, professional, and I know—I know before he says another word—that everything is about to get worse. "It's your aunt. Marie West."

"What happened?" My voice cracks.

"The aneurysm we've been monitoring. It ruptured."

The world tilts on its axis.

"No," I gasp. The word is barely a whisper. "No, please."

"She's in critical condition, April. We have a small window—maybe thirty to forty minutes. We need to perform an emergency craniotomy immediately, or she bleeds out. Do you understand?"

Thirty minutes.

I see her face in my mind. Aunt Marie, with her warm brown eyes and the laugh lines around her mouth. The way she used to braid my hair before school, her fingers gentle and practiced. How she worked double shifts at the diner so I could have new school supplies, new shoes, a chance at college.

"You're going to do great things, April," she'd say, her hands smelling like coffee and pie. "You're going to get out of here. Make something of yourself."

And now she's dying.

Because of me. Because I couldn't afford insurance. Because I spent my money on rent and food and textbooks instead of her premiums.

"Do it!" I scream into the phone. "Do it now! Save her!"

"We can't."

Those two words stop my heart.

"What do you mean you can't?"