CHAPTER TEN
He was right. About part of it, anyway. The door—this one, at least—was thick and heavy, with the hinges on the outside where she couldn't get at them. She threw her shoulder into it a few times—okay, thirty times—but it barely rocked in its frame. Kicking had the same effect, which was to say no effect. "Yeah? Well, guess what, Dick? It’s maple, not oak,” she muttered, turning away from it. “Shows what you know.”
She'd prowled around her cage for the last couple of hours. It was a gorgeous room with pale cream wallpaper, plush wine-colored carpet, a soft queen-sized bed with about a zillion pillows, and a truly glorious attached bathroom with more marble than you could shake a stick at and a tub so big, she could stretch out and never touch the sides. But free of razors and other sharp shiny things, she was sorry to note—she could hardly beat Dick to death with a bag of cotton balls. But as far as Jane was concerned, if you couldn't leave, it might as well have a cement floor, bars on the window, and a ringless toilet in the corner.
She went through the bureau and found several robes in her size, in various materials, and socks. Lots of warm fuzzy socks in a veritable rainbow. Other than that, no real clothes. Nothing most people would be comfortable leaving in.
Creep.
No television, either, but several books. She saw some classics—Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Tolstoy, Lewis—as well as—too funny!—the entire collected works of Stephen King and Carl Hiaasen. She supposed she might stand a chance if she threw Richard III at Dick as hard as she could. No...Hamlet. It was longer. She'd gotten the drop on him before, in the alley, but wondered if that was possible now. He didn't believe she was a werewolf, the stupid dickhead, but he'd be careful. He thought she was one of the monkeys, but despite that, he left nothing to chance anyway. In a weird and unsettling way, it was a compliment.
If he wasn't such a jackass, she could have liked him. She did like him. Before, at least. And he seemed to like her—to want to marry her!—even though he assumed she was working for assassins.
I’m the only assassin you should be worrying about now, Sunglasses At Night.
She wondered what the Pack was thinking—what boss-man Michael was thinking. Probably that she'd been run over by a train or something equally final and grisly. Death was about the only acceptable reason for skipping a meeting with the big dog, no pun intended. What she found interesting was that although she’d unwillingly disobeyed a command from her Pack leader, it brought no anxiety. In fact, it was kind of nice, knowing Michael wanted her on the Cape, and here she was, still in Boston. No. Better than nice. It bordered on exhilarating.
If only Dick hadn't been such a beast. If only he hadn't been so nice about being such a beast—he might have considered hurting her, but he sucked at it. She remembered him stopping when he thought he was hurting her...remembered the excellent food, and the large quantities of it. The absurd marriage proposal. The conversation, the genuine interest in her life. Absurd because...well, just because.
If he wasn't such a dick, she could have kept liking him. If he wasn’t such a dick, she’d have come right back to town once Michael was finished with her. (Ugh, that phrase: finished with her. Sit! Stay! Good girl.) She knew herself well enough to understand she could never have been with anyone she could dominate. Could never be in a relationship with a beta. But conversely, she didn’t want to be second-in-command in the partnership, either. And though she was loath to admit it, having such toe-curling pleasure gently forced on her had been indescribable. There was something about giving up all control, having no choice but to let someone else do...whatever. Anything. Everything. She didn’t want to romanticize their situation, but she had to admit, part of her was wondering when he’d do it again. And without much trepidation, which was the really frightening part.
It sounded deceptively simple: she needed a partner, one who didn’t mind switching things up now and again. But the Pack members she knew were one extreme or the other. And to be honest, she was solitary by nature, something her extended family didn’t understand, nor did they try. She didn’t want to settle, she didn’t want to give in, and she didn’t want to dominate—at least, not all the time.
But nobody—absolutely nobody—snatched Jane Lupo from the street, tied her down like a dog, and used her like a midnight snack. He'd pay the toll and it’d be steep. She would have to wait for her chance, but she wasn’t an apex predator for nothing. The opportunity would eventually present itself.
And then he'd better watch out for his guts, because she meant to have them on the floor.