by Mia Wolf
Kidnapped by the Bear
A Paranormal Romance
Mia Wolf
Copyright © 2019 by The Wolf Sisters Books.
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of the book only. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form, including recording, without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Chapter 1 – Warren
Chapter 2 – Ashley
Chapter 3 – Warren
Chapter 4 – Ashley
Chapter 5 – Warren
Chapter 6 – Ashley
Chapter 7 – Warren
Chapter 8 – Ashley
Chapter 9 – Warren
Chapter 10 – Ashley
Chapter 11 – Warren
Chapter 12 – Ashley
Chapter 13 - Warren
Chapter 14 – Ashley
Chapter 15 – Warren
Chapter 16 – Ashley
Chapter 17 - Warren
Chapter 18 – Ashley
Chapter 19 - Warren
Chapter 20 – Ashley
Chapter 21 – Warren
Chapter 22 – Ashley
Chapter 23 – Warren
Chapter 24 - Ashley
Chapter 25 – Warren
Chapter 26 – Ashley
Chapter 27 – Warren
Chapter 28 – Ashley
Chapter 29 – Warren
Chapter 30 – Ashley
Chapter 31 – Warren
Chapter 32 – Ashley
Chapter 33 – Warren
Chapter 34 – Ashley
Chapter 35 – Warren
Chapter 36 – Ashley
Chapter 37 – Warren
Chapter 38 – Ashley
Chapter 39 - Warren
Chapter 40 – Ashley
Chapter 41 – Warren
Chapter 42 - Ashley
Chapter 43 – Warren
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by The Wolf Sisters
Chapter 1 – Warren
I stare longingly at the family home I grew up in, feeling the same guilt that made me run away all those years ago. Nothing has changed, has it? The house still looks the same from my vantage point. Or perhaps, everything has changed, and I’m the one who has stayed the same, stuck in time like a broken wall clock.
I take a few more steps to get closer and trail along the back wall of the house until I reach the window and catch a glimpse of the inside. A flood of memories washes over me when I see all the furniture set in the same place as it used to be all those years ago when these four walls were inhabited by a family. My family. It looks as though nobody’s home. How typical of Rose, my baby sister, to leave the window open when she’s away. She never did care about her place getting broken in.
I hurl myself up the window and into the house in one swift motion, landing lightly on my feet. Once I’m in, I double check the place and confirm that it indeed is empty. That helps me relax a little as I go around the hall, taking in the surroundings, taking in the history and the remnants of my previous life.
Upon first look, things appear to be the same as before but upon closer inspection, things are slightly different. The mantle, where we used to keep a two feet large family portrait, is now decorated with urns. Urns with the ashes of my parents’ dead bodies. It’s customary according to bear shifter tradition to keep them in your home. The left wall that was adorned with family vacation pictures and photographs that boasted the accomplishments of me and my sister is partly untouched, the difference being that my face now only remains in one of those many photo frames, that too a picture that I mischievously photobombed, trying desperately to be a part of the family. It infuriates me a little, but I have done far too much damage to have a say here.
I pick up a photograph that’s lying face down on the center table, alone and outside of its frame, and turn it over. I burst out laughing when I find out which one it is. It’s a picture of me holding Rose in my arms as she pulls my hair out in anger. Rose must’ve been two and I’ve must’ve been ten years old. The pixels bring the memory back to me. Rose had been crying for mom for a while and when I took her in my arms instead, she flipped out. Or—‘flipped out’ is putting it mildly—she went into a baby’s version of neurotic rage.
Before I can pull myself back from the memory, I hear the lock click in the back. The door flings open while I’m standing frozen to the spot with the picture still in my hands. It’s Rose.
The first time her eyes fall on me, there’s shock in them, which is quickly replaced by anger. The same boiling rage from when she was a baby. Then again, she’ll always be a little baby to me. Her expression softens on its own, turning sadder and duller. She thinks I’m going to leave even before I’ve said a word.
“Welcome home,” I say in jest and it riles her up just like I thought it would.
“How did you get in?” she says, averting her gaze and throwing the mail that’s in her hand on the counter.
I simply point at the window. I bet the lack of remorse on my face is bugging her.
“How can I help you, Warren?”
“Coffee, for starters.”
She’s startled by my response, retreating slightly, as if I asked too much from her. As if I asked something from her that requires too much of a commitment and she’s already attached. She doesn't want to have to rip me off again like a Band-Aid from a fresh wound. You won’t have to, sister. Am I still allowed to make promises to you?
We sit across from each other in the living room, and I sip the coffee as if we don’t have five years’ worth of life experiences to catch up on. I do feel as calm as I look, but it’s not fair to Rose that I look so untroubled by the implications of my decisions.
“I suppose you have questions,” I speak, unwittingly infantilizing my baby sister. I always have. Perhaps, it’s time I stopped.
“Why are you here?”
“That’s your question? Not where have you been? Why did you leave? Where did you go?” I ask when in fact her question was as good a question as any. I can’t help but tease her. Those flaring nostrils tell me I have successfully managed to irk her. I feel like a jerk.
“Why are you here?” she repeats and her temper is what’s flaring now. “First, you leave me alone for all those years after our parents died. Then, you show up at my wedding out of nowhere. And now you’ve broken into my house—”
“Our house,” I stop her mid-sentence. “You have every right to be angry at me.”
She doesn’t speak and looks outside, shooting me daggers from the corner of her eyes. I wish I had any good news for her. If only I could tell her something that would make her hate me less. But the truth is bitter, and I can’t save either of us from it. I ran away in a vain attempt to escape that truth and here I am, back where it all began.
I summon the last vestige of courage left in me and sigh as soon as I see the trickle of a tear in my sister’s eye. “You left me all alone,” she says, but this time it doesn’t come out in anger. It’s sadness instead.
“I did,” I admit. To my fault, it wasn’t the worst of what I did.
“My entire family disappeared in a single day. Do you know how I’ve rebuilt myself? Do you know how shattered a person can become? The depth of hell that I’ve had to pull myself out of
? It’s your fault, Warren.”
I prepared myself time and time again for these hurtful words before stepping into this house. These words were inevitable. I knew that, and I practiced gulping them without a reaction but they sting so much worse now that I see the pain in Rose’s eyes. I can see what I’ve done.
“I’m sorry, Rose,” I tell her like I’ve imagined telling her thousands of times all these years. “You don’t need to forgive me.”
“Good. Because I won’t.” She stands up, waiting for me to leave.
I look her in the eye. “I’ll be around now. Maybe when you feel a little better, we can catch up?”
Chapter 2 – Ashley
I step into my office on Monday only to find an avalanche of problems waiting for me.
“I was away for a weekend, how is this place already falling apart?” I ask while my team runs helter-skelter through the office, fetching papers, getting clients on calls, and in general doing their best. I feel a pang of guilt for taking the weekend off. I should have known this would happen.
“Ashley.” Violet, my assistant, calls me out as I’m heading to my personal office to get some headspace. I need a breather and get my head straight on. It often helps me to come up with solutions.
“Violet, if it can wait five minutes?” I turn around to face her. There are about a million frown lines on her face. “Please give me five.”
She nods weakly and I feel horrible for making her wait. But I know why I hired her. She has the same mental fortitude as I do. She’ll be fine.
I bang the door of my office shut and lean on my eight-foot long marble-top desk. There’s a growl coming up my throat which I willfully let out. The office is soundproof but the walls are made of glass. Everyone will see me lose it for a millisecond, but the silver lining is that they won’t hear a thing. I always had conflicting emotions about the office Regal built for me.
After a healthy release of anger and frustration, I stand up straight and see my reflection in the glass window beyond which New York City is sprawled like a painted canvas. The view is what keeps me sane around here. I take a deep breath and watch my posture become upright in the reflection. The tension leaves my face and I even manage to calm my shadow down. This is the effect I’ll need to have on my team outside. It's tough being the glue that keeps it all together.
I crane my neck, feeling it stretch into a commanding stance. I’m ready to be unstoppable. With my wits about myself, I walk back outside, steady on my four-inch, gray suede stilettos.
“Violet, catch me up to speed,” I tell my assistant while I walk down the office, taking in the chaos. Everything seems to be collapsing under pressure.
“The samples that you asked for a week ago are still in progress and Paul is refusing to deliver them any quicker than next week, Steve Parera wants to get on a call with you, and Gretchen from the Milan office has canceled the order for our fabrics last minute,” Violet blurts out one bad news after another then pauses, “but she did sound very apologetic so I don’t know what to do with that.”
I sigh and almost hear my temper dial up a notch but I quickly calm myself. A level-head is what’s going to make or break this day. I face my team of junior designers who immediately stop their frantic work. “Put the Milan fashion week work on hold for a couple of days. I hate to do this, but we’re well ahead of schedule on that one and we need to make the Miranda Reynolds work done stat. Violet, please draw up a new schedule for the week and make sure this gets handled.”
“Yes, ma’am. What about the samples?” Violet is juggling a mountain of paperwork as she keeps her pace up.
“Withdraw the contract with Paul and get Hassan to do it. Offer him double the price and he’ll drop anything he has going on.”
“Steve Parera—”
“I don’t have time for him.”
“Got it. What about the order from Milan?” Violet asks taking notes like her life depends on it.
“Put me on a call with Alfred,” I tell Violent while looking at her from the corner of my eye. I know she’s going to hyperventilate even before I finish my sentence. Alfred is Gretchen’s boss, and I know for a fact that canceling the order is his twisted idea of a powerplay move.
“Yes, ma’am,” Violet shrieks but there’s a hint of dampness in her eyes.
“Violet, look at me,” I say. She stops and faces me, but I can see that her attention is elsewhere. “You’re doing a fantastic job right now.” I smile at her and see her worries melt away a little. Compliments of substance, when given sparsely but at the right moments, can really help people out-perform themselves. And for a force like Violet, this rule applies four times as much. All she needs is a guiding light.
“All right, people, let’s get out of this cesspool,” I tell my team while gyrating my hand, a signal to get to work. “I’ll take the call in my office, Violet.”
I walk back to my safe haven and collapse onto the large, nearly throne-like chair. It was designed by the head of design at Regal, a seat that has served me as much as I have served it for almost a decade now. Sometimes, it doesn’t allow me to relax until I have done my job. Today will be one such day.
Violet barges into my office, covering the phone in her hand and mouths, “Alfred Ricci” as she hands me the device. I nod and gesture for her to step outside of my office. Sometimes, I have to be the mama bear that protects her cubs from the hungry tigers.
“Alfred.” I feign sincerity and even fool myself into thinking that the man on the other end is perhaps half decent, deserving respect.
Once we get the pretentious greetings out of the way, I let biting cold surface in my voice.
“Let me cut to the chase, Alfred. And I do hate that it has come to this. My hands are really tied. But if Gretchen doesn’t send me those fabrics within two days, I’m afraid Regal will not be working with Alfred Ricci, anymore.”
There is silence on the other end and then a deep sigh or an internal scream, I don’t know which of the two and couldn’t care either way. I know the word he’s looking for. Bitch. But when you try to play with fire, you’ve got to be ready to get burned.
“I see, Ms. Wang. You’re as formidable as ever,” he nearly squeals into the microphone. I have a small moment of pride. “I’ll look into it, of course.”
“Alfred, there’s one more thing. Regal is planning to build relationships outside of Italy. We’ve always wanted to expand in France. There are a couple of really promising brands that seem to be interested in working with us. It’s all very hush hush right now, but you can keep a secret, right, darling?” The final blow to light a fire under his bottom.
He fumbles for words for ten seconds before finally managing to speak. “Yes, of course, Ms. Wang.”
“I’m afraid I have to terminate our conversation here. I have a business to attend to. Have Gretchen report to us as soon as possible, hm?” I pause for the briefest moment. “Have a good day, Alfred.” I cut the call.
I notice Violet breathe a sigh of relief as she sees me put the phone down. I gesture for her to come in.
“Gretchen will send us the fabric,” I tell her.
“For sure?” Violet screams with childlike enthusiasm. I raise an eyebrow at her which makes her settle down. “I mean, that’s terrific.”
“I suppose that’s enough disasters for the day? If yes, I’d like to get to work.” That’s a cue for Violet to leave, but she doesn't so I know there’s something else. “What is it?”
She gulps before speaking. “WFA is awarding you the fashion designer of the year award and wants you to RSVP for the event and the dinner, ma’am.”
I turn my head to my left and stare at the designer of the year trophies of the last four years.
“Again,” Violet adds as she sees my expression turn to apathy.
I sigh. “It’s just that they always ask you to come with a date, and I don’t have a date. When was the last time I went on a date?” I laugh to myself as I ramble on. “I can’t just go alone. Again
.”
Violet knows I’m looking for her permission but she doesn’t do me the favor of making my decision for me. Sometimes I hate how conscientious she is.
“Would it be too rude not to go?” I ask her, but it’s not a question at all.
Violet nods anyway.
“Can I get back to you after this whole mess is over?” She nods again and leaves the office without dismissal.
I’ve accepted a designer of the year award without a date by my side four times now and it made me feel more like a loser than a winner. I know I won’t be finding a date because for me there hasn’t been another. And I don’t know where in the world Warren might be now.
I stare longingly out of the window as if searching for Warren in the vastness of the city. I see the Brooklyn view bathed in the morning glow. This is where we met for the first time, it’s not too much of a stretch to look for him around here.
I push thoughts of him away and look forward to drowning myself in work for the coming weeks.
Chapter 3 – Warren
I’ve loved two things in my life: automobiles and philosophy. Both of which have saved me from myself time and time again. Whenever I seem to be spiraling out of control, I turn to one of them. I’ll either work on a project for a car or a motorcycle that will pull me out of the depths of hell or let ideas of wise, ancient men lull me into a sense of security and completeness. Every now and then, neither of my loves reciprocate which leaves me with a certain bitterness for life and a mandate for straightening up. Right now is one of those times when I can no longer continue to avoid reality and find solace in material things or in ideas of other men.
I trudge uphill to where Joshua’s apartment is. It’s right next to my home so when I pass it by, I take a sweeping glance, wondering if Rose is in there. I’m filled with a sense of brotherly curiosity. Is she alright, has she already eaten breakfast? But I relinquished the right to be “brotherly” when I left her all alone to fend for herself in a house chock full of memories of people all of whom disappeared from her life, never to return. And here I go, disrupting her life once again. I grimace while I pass by the front porch and walk up the road to Joshua’s place. After two knocks, no one replies.
