Riley’s POV

I bolted upright on the couch, heart thumping like a bass drum at a rave. I leveled the fiercest glare in human history at the grinning wolf-pack bros. “This is not my home. And I don’t recall signing up to be kidnapped—or telling any of you monsters my name.”

Smiley Guy’s grin widened until I wondered if his cheeks would split. “It was on your shirt.” His finger tapped the spot just above his collarbone. “Your name tag fell off on the way to the van.”

I narrowed my eyes and leaned forward. “You mean it fell off when you were dragging me to the van?”

“Carrying you, actually,” Seatbelt Guy interjected.

Of course. Carrying. Because it sounds like less of a creepy kidnapping.

There were so many alpha wannabes in this room, I was losing track. Too many werewolves. Too many faces. Too many… feelings of impending doom. I was completely and utterly… screwed.

“Well, if it bothers you that we know your name,” Smiley Guy said with a gentleman’s bow—“I’m Asher.” He offered his hand, like we were meeting at a coffee shop instead of a wolf den.

I blinked. Glared. But I took his hand anyway. It was warm—almost reassuring. “Riley.”

“I’m Rowan,” Seatbelt Guy chimed in.

One by one the rest of them had tossed out their names, but each one crashed over my head like a frisbee through a windshield. I mentally high-fived my key survival skill: selective hearing.

Then came a lumbering thud: Noah—my personal brooding wolf—leapt onto the couch beside me. And by “leapt” I mean his broad, wolfy form folded over like a big, saggy pillow, his giant furry head crashing onto my bare thigh.

My first thought: I should’ve worn leggings instead of shorts.

My second thought: Oh God, his fur is kind of… luxurious?

My third thought: Slide away, Riley, slide away.

And so I slid.

He inched closer. I slid again. He inched. I slid. On and on until I slammed into the armrest with a surprised yelp—and there he was: a giant, fluffy head perched on my skin again.

“Well,” Asher said with that infuriating grin, “we’ll leave you two lovebirds to bond for now. Dinner’s at Rowan’s place tonight—next door. Get some rest and shower. You kind of reek. We’ll rustle up some clothes; just wear Noah’s for now.”

I threw Asher a scowl. “You guys are insane. This is crazy—”

“—and yet, welcome to Silver Hollow!” Asher beamed. His grin warmed the room like a heat lamp.

Great. Twice that line, and I felt welcome as a skunk at a garden party. They filed out, chuckling—like this was all just a big, fuzzy joke.

The moment the door clicked shut, I shot up. No way in hell was I crashing here forever. I sprinted to the key-hook by the front door. One set of keys dangled from a hook, teasing me. Bingo.

My heart galloped, adrenaline fizzing like soda. If only my feet felt less like shredded roadkill.

I hustled back to the garage door—my escape route—when suddenly a sleek shadow soared over the couch. Noah plopped in front of the exit faster than my bulletproof plan could even form.

I skidded to a halt. “What the hell? Move!”

He growled. Not a menacing growl, more like a grumpy answer. “No.”

My pulse leaped. “Damn you.” I spun, fingers trembling around the cold metal keys. With a stubborn inhale, I shoved them in my pocket and headed for the stairs, each step a tiny murder on my battered feet. Noah padded up after me, careful not to overtake.

Upstairs, I found two bedrooms and a bathroom. The first door I tried revealed Noah’s bedroom: earth-toned, minimalist, with a walk-in closet half-devoured of clothes. Jackpot.

I ripped a soft T-shirt off a hanger and rummaged through drawers until I unearthed a pair of sweatpants. Too hot for sweats, but beggars can’t choose wardrobe. His socks emerged next—plain white.

I balanced everything in one arm and slipped into the bathroom. Noah shoved past me before I could click the door shut.

“Out!” I barked, pointing at him like a drill sergeant.

He plopped on the bath mat, tail wagging. My cheeks heated. He was a majestic beast, no doubt, but I couldn’t shower with wolfie watchful eyes tracking my every move.

“Seriously.” I shook a finger. “Get out.”

He cocked his head, eyes bright and hopeful. Like a giant, furry puppy.

I backed up until my spine kissed the tile. Of all the kidnappers in all the world… I mean, he was a wolf! But also, rumor had it wolves were men, too. Human men. Human men who?… Shh. Don’t go there, girl.

I searched the room for a weapon: a hairbrush? A shampoo bottle? No dice. The only things within arm’s reach were a can of Febreze and one of those electric face razors with three round spinning blades.

I grabbed the Febreze and leveled it at him. “Get out or I’ll spray you,” I threatened.

He made a soft whine and craned his head toward my feet. Blisters laid siege to my heels, toes and ankles. My socks were crusted with dried blood and yellowish pus. Romance was definitely not in the air.

He nosed forward, sniffing my shoe. When I frowned, he did something… surprising. He seized one shoelace in his teeth and slid backward, tugging until it gave slack.

My brain stuttered. Did he just… unlace my shoes?

“You want me to take them off?” I asked, incredulous.

He bobbed his head, those big green eyes doing something strange to my chest.

Grudgingly, I perched on the toilet lid and peeled off my shoe. Blistered carnage—ouch. He whined encouragement. I yanked off the sock and nearly howled. He tiptoed forward, then jerked back when I slapped his nose—in a loving, totally not-crazy way. He whimpered like I was breaking his heart.

He nosed the tub, gestured at the tap, then nudged a bottle of hand soap.

“You want me to wash my feet with hand soap?” I yelped. He nodded.

Fine. I turned on the water—warm enough to scald a lesser mortal. He nosed the handle until perfect warm-ish water cascaded over my throbbing foot. I squealed, swore, and begged for my mother. Then he tapped the soap, soapy suds covered my wounds, and I chanted a curse so colorful a pirate might blush.

He finally tapped again, water on. Rinse. Repeat for foot two—scream optional but highly encouraged. Next, he gestured to the first aid kit wedged under the sink.

I laid out gauze, tape, triple antibiotic ointment. He poked at the ointment. I smiled—sort of.

“Thanks,” I muttered. “If you weren’t a giant furball, I’d totally give you a tip.”

He made a noise—somewhere between a purr and a growl. I shrugged and dotted antibiotic on each blister.

He climbed into the tub, flopped onto his back, and flung his legs over the edge like a contortionist. He grinned a goofy, toothy grin my way, tail whipping the shower curtain.

“Very funny,” I said. “Now, out.” I pointed at the bathroom door.

He huffed poetically but jumped down and padded outside, ears perked to catch the faint click of the door.

I reached to open the tap, and steamy water began filling the tub.

I allowed myself a small grin. Maybe this monstrous pack wasn’t my end. Maybe… just maybe… I could turn this madness into something halfway tolerable.

After all, my escape plan was still in play.

I just had to survive a bath, a dinner next door, and a possibly adorable wolf who wouldn’t leave me alone.

No big deal… right?

Right?