Page 3 of Wolf's Redemption

Lothair chuckled. “I always win, Ulrik.” His smile vanished. “Never forget that.” He turned on his heel, grabbed the candle and climbed the stairs.

The grate above screeched open, then clanged shut and the comte’s footsteps receded. Ulrik eyed his surroundings. He must escape this hole in the ground. Staying, holding out as long as he could, was no longer an option. With only seven of them left, not a single female among them, and one of them confirmed as a traitor, things had never been more dire for the pack. Or his alpha. Gaharet had to be warned. But how in God’s name would he get free of this silver?

Chapter Two

Deptford, London

2022

Rebekah Clarke stepped off the bus into the rain and dashed under an awning. She dug into her bag, rummaging through unused tissues, a pen, old receipts, a paperback shifter romance she’d gotten from the book exchange, stray mints, her purse and whatever other unmentionables she’d thrown in there at one time or another. What a crap day. Her fingers closed over her keys. A glass of cheap red wine and a meal of two-minute noodles were all she had to look forward to, but at least she could enjoy them in the privacy of her flat. No more dealing with her boss Charlie’s lecherous looks and grabby hands.

“Your rent is late.”

Bek looked up and groaned. In the doorway of The Spicy Dragon, beneath the stuttering neon sign, stood a tiny woman, arms folded across her chest, her skin as wrinkled as a long-forgotten apple in Bek’s fruit bowl.

“Mrs. Wu.”

Mouth-watering smells emanated from the restaurant. A damn sight better than her intended meal, but Mrs. Wu would as soon extend her credit, or comp her free food, as she’d cut off her right arm. The woman might be four feet nothing, but she was a tyrant of epic proportions. It wouldn’t surprise Bek if the restaurant was a front for the Chinese Triad, and Mrs. Wu the Dragon Master.

“You’re two weeks late with rent.” She waggled a bony finger at Bek. “You don’t pay, I evict you.”

She bloody well would, too. “I got paid today, Mrs. Wu.”

She hadn’t. She was supposed to be, but her boss had stiffed her again. While propositioning her. Charlie knew there were few employers who would take her on. The bastard also worked on the assumption if he didn’t pay her, she wouldn’t have money for rent, and she’d have to give up her flat. With nowhere to live, but desperately needing to keep her job, she’d be at his mercy. Bek would peddle her firstborn before she slept with that cretin. “I’ll go down to the bank first thing tomorrow.”

Mrs. Wu narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “You better. I be waiting for it. Many people are interested in renting your place.”

Bek plastered a smile on her face. As if. This wasn’t Mayfair, and The Spicy Dragon wasnotthe Michelin starred Hakkasan. Nope. Her flat was a cockroach-infested dump, and the restaurant wasn’t much better. One phone call to the health board and they’d shut it down.And then I’ll be back to having nowhere to live.“Tomorrow, I promise.”

Mrs. Wu scowled, then retreated inside.

Bek huffed, unlocked the door and climbed the narrow stairs to her bedsit above the restaurant. She dropped her rucksack on the worn and wonky table and kicked off her shoes. Then she flicked on the heat, removed her sodden jacket and shoved her cold feet into her slippers. Her neighbor, a skeevy tweaker, was already in, the pounding beat of Black Sabbath loud enough to penetrate the thin walls of her flat, but not so loud as to piss off Mrs. Wu. She’d bang on the wall if she thought it’d make any difference.

She plonked a glass and a half-empty bottle of cheap wine on the coffee table, and threw herself on the sofa and checked her phone for messages. Four from her parole officer. She screwedup her face. Charlie had probably phoned him after she’d stormed out, swearing her head off and telling him he could stick it where the sun didn’t shine.

Bek poured herself a glass of wine and gulped it down like water. Like she needed it to survive. She did. Her parole officer was a hard-ass. And a friend of Charlie’s.Lucky me.She rubbed her temple, the hint of a headache already forming.How has my life come to this?At thirty-two, she should have her shit together by now.

Bek poured more wine. She’d gotten herself into this mess, she’d get herself out of it. She slipped her hand into her pocket and retrieved her find. A little gold disc about the size of a fifty pence piece. On one side was a howling wolf’s head. She flipped it over. On the other, four lines of strange, curling script.

She’d found it on the floor of the bar. With the patrons who frequented Charlie’s, chances were the owner hadn’t come by it through honest means. Charlie would’ve kept it for himself. So, instead of handing it over as lost property, Bek had slipped it into her pocket. Now it was hers. If she could figure out its value, it might be her ticket to a Charlie-free future. And better living quarters. Ignoring her messages, she thumbed up Google.

* * * *

Three glasses of wine and an hour later, Bek found a match for the script on the disc. Something called Theban, from the fifteen hundreds. She slumped against the faded and torn upholstery.Bollocks. She couldn’t hock an artifact. Whether it came from a museum or a private collection, someone would be looking for it. Most likely the cops. Wouldn’t her parole officer justlovethat?

Her phone beeped a low battery warning, and she groaned. Another thing she couldn’t afford—a new phone with a battery that lasted more than a few hours. She poured the last dregs of the wine into her glass, took the two steps to her kitchenette andtossed the bottle in the rubbish. She missed. It hit the corner of the bench-top with a sharp crack and shattered. Bek let her head fall back and stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling.

Could this day get any worse?

Kneeling, she picked up the pieces of glass, slicing her finger.

Why? Why does the universe have it in for me today?

With more care, she cleaned up the mess. Stemming the blood from her finger, she searched through her rucksack for her phone charger. She dug beneath her purse and the paperback novel, scrounging amongst the useless crap she kept in her bag. No charger. She checked her jacket pockets. No luck. She pawed through her bag again. Seriously, it was like a mini version of the Bermuda Triangle. Things went in there and were never seen or heard of again.

Bek tipped the contents out onto the table. Beside the book, her purse, a pen, tissues and a lollipop that had seen better days, she found a lipstick she’d thought lost months ago and a condom, expired last week. But no phone charger.Bollocks.

She slapped her forehead with her palm. Bloody Charlie. He’d grabbed her ass as she was unplugging her phone. She must have forgotten her charger as she’d stormed out of the bar.Great. Just great.She’d have to make do with whatever battery she had left.

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