Her rogue heir

*Dimos* Once upon a time, I was the heir apparent to the prestigious, exalted, and powerful pack of Wolf fort. I was born into a family that had been a favorite among lycan royalty since the days of William Grey wolf. Once upon a time, I had friends aplenty with whom I enjoyed carousing, imbibing the finest liquors, and wagering on the fastest horses. I was respected among my peers as well as my father's, and considered to be quite the catch by the she-wolves of the high packs who vied for my attention. I was adored, admired, and expected to live an easy and rewarding existence. Once upon a time, I wanted for nothing and took every aspect of my good fortune for granted, as my due. But that was all before betrayal shattered my life. Before the Lycan queen unmercifully stripped my family of everything we possessed, including our good name, and condemned us to fight for our survival on the streets with nothing but our wits, courage, and determination. Before my father, whom I once sought to impress, was hanged for treason during one faithful summer, and my genteel mother, whom I loved, died shortly thereafter. It was a result of the unbearable shame and heartbreak of her husband being found guilty of plotting to assassinate the lycan Queen. Before all of this, I was someone I hardly recognized, someone swallowed by fury, hatred, and a need for revenge. My purpose became much darker than the frivolousness it had once been. I burned with a need for retribution. It is this terrifying purpose that keeps me awake at night and presently has me standing at the mullioned window in the sophisticatedly furnished parlor of the elegant terrace house. I fight not to catalog the plush carpets that it appears few have walked upon, the rosewood credenza that sports not a single scratch, or the exquisite and tasteful artwork that adorns the walls. I struggle not to wonder how much of it was purchased by my dishonorable father for his notorious mistress, with an abundance of coins from the family coffers, back when they overflowed. Before they were barren of silver and gold. Before their contents and everything of importance were seized by the lycan queen. For a little longer than a year, I have avoided coming here, of confronting her. But desperation has finally driven me to knock upon her door. A well-appointed and stately butler, with a crooked and slightly off-kilter nose that hints at a fight he possibly did not win, opens it and proclaims the hour too late for visitors. I merely scoff. The w***e who lives within these walls would be accustomed to gentlemen arriving whenever the itch struck, no matter the hour's proximity to midnight. Therefore, I simply give the servant a scathing glare and say, "Fetch the mistress of this household," my tone one that doesn't invite argument, one befitting a man who would one day be an Alpha. Though none of those situations apply any longer, old habits are difficult to break. Without further ado, I barrel past the startled gent to take up my vigil by the window. I will see my father's former mistress. I won't leave until I garner every iota of information she can provide that will assist me. I had only ever seen her once, and then from a distance, while my father was helping her into a car. Sitting astride a black motorbike I no longer possess, I followed the vehicle through the bustling city streets. I observed her entering this residence, and when I later confronted my father, he admitted her leading role in his enjoyment of the night. I came to despise the woman for her part in deepening the cool disdain that often marked my parents' relationship. After I challenged him, the Alpha of Wolf fort made no secret of his infidelity. The whole of city soon learned he was cavorting with a woman young enough to be his daughter. As far as I am aware, my father had never strayed from honoring his marriage vows until this brazen harlot worked her wiles on him. At this precise moment, the object of my scorn sweeps gracefully into the room, immediately taking ownership of it. With her fiery red hair piled artfully on top of her head and held in place with pearl combs, a few strands dangling to tease her long swan-like neck, she is striking… and taller than I had realized, only a few inches shy of my six feet and two. Highlighting the voluptuousness of her body, her crimson gown daringly reveals a good bit of her cleavage, clings to her ribs, cinch at her narrow waist, and flows out over wide hips in a smoothly draping manner that hints perhaps no petticoats resided beneath. A man could ride this woman hard, fast, rough, and she would enthusiastically welcome his fervent attention and return the favor. It irritates the devil out of me because I understand why she would appeal to my father, to any man with blood coursing through his veins, blood she could cause to boil. Christ, she has my c**k reacting with such swiftness that for a heartbeat, I felt light-headed. I wanted to plow a fist into the wall at my own body's unexpected betrayal. But it was only animalistic lust, not desire, not want, not attraction. Since my tumble from grace, I have possessed neither the time nor the temperament for f*********n. Besides, the sort of women who would deign to lower themselves to be taken by the son of a traitor hold no appeal to me. Unfortunately, this harlot does appeal. She is a female who understands her worth and flaunts it, a woman who isn't shy about giving the impression she knows her way well around a man's body. Her gaze travels over me slowly and thoroughly, assessing my merits… causing me to straighten my spine, hating the notion that she might find me lacking in any manner… before she begins striding toward a delicate rosewood sideboard that houses several crystal decanters and an assortment of glasses. "Dimos Softpaw. I believe your preference is scotch." Devil take her for knowing who I am as well as that little truth about me. But it bodes well that if my sire has shared those intimate particulars of his heir, then perhaps he has also confided the pertinent specifics regarding his nefarious plans. She pours the amber liquid into two tumblers, glides over as though she walks upon clouds, and extends one toward me. "I expected you sooner." Such conviction in her tone, such confidence. She is not a woman to cower before me and tell me everything I require and demand to know. I am going to have to alter the strategy I had considered employing when I thought she would be impressed by… and perhaps a bit fearful of… who I once was. And I imagined she would be more wary that my eyes reveal who I now am: a man who takes what he wants without shame or remorse. When I stride down the street, people avoid me as though I wear a sign around my neck: Approach at your own risk. But if she is aware of any of that, she appears determined to ignore it. She is more mature, older than I had realized, somewhere north of thirty, I would wager. As for myself, I have only just reached my thirtieth year. With a measure of disgust at her for being so beautiful and myself for finding her so, I take her offering but let none of my emotions gush forth into my voice, keeping my tone flat and uncaring. "You have me at a disadvantage as I don't know your name." "Henry will suffice." She lifts her glass, takes a sip, and licks the full lips of a wide mouth that has been designed to give a man pleasure. Turning her back on me, her hips swaying provocatively, she wanders to a dark blue wingback chair near the fireplace and eases slowly into it, and I imagine her daringly easing down onto other things. A bed. A lap. A c**k. My c**k, damn her. With the elegant hand holding the glass, she indicates the chair opposite her. I shouldn't. I should stay where I am, reestablish my dominance, rule over her as I did the bloody butler, but she has left in her wake the fragrance of crisp cleanliness and a freshly bloomed rose, both of which have been sadly lacking from my life for much of the past year. No time for strolling through gardens, no interest in kissing perfumed necks. So, I follow where she leads and drop unceremoniously into the chair like the uncouth monster I have become. I fight not to be embarrassed by the sad state of my clothing, worn and frayed. I have spared a few of my precious coins to visit a bathhouse for a wash and a shave before coming here, but I have walked, and now I reek of my journey. I doubt this woman ever reeks. Taking a sip of my whisky, I nearly groan at the familiar flavor. Coming from the finest of northern distilleries, it had once been my favorite. It seems she has expensive taste in all things. "Is there some man upstairs awaiting your return?" I ask begrudgingly, not bothering to hide my distaste for how she has chosen to make her way in the world. She raises a brow. "I don't see how my bed is any of your concern." "My apologies. It's not." I sigh, remembering a time when I wouldn't have sat in judgment, when I would have welcomed a woman such as she into my arms and been grateful that she didn't observe pack Society's strictures. The sooner I get to the matter at hand, the sooner I can leave and forget her. "You were once my father's mistress. Did he tell you anything about his plans... his comrades... his fellow treasonous snakes that might help me find them?" For the first time, I see her taken aback, her golden-brown eyes widening the tiniest fraction. She tilts her head slightly as though taking a new measure of me, like a puppy accustomed to being kicked suddenly finding a hand willing to pet. "You are searching for the other men involved in the plot to assassinate the Lycan Queen? For what purpose?" "To restore a bit of honor to my family name," I state succinctly. Or at least to my own name, hoping to regain some of the respect my father's actions have stolen from me. Being associated with a traitor does me no favors. "To see them tried and hanged as my father was, to see the country rid of them." She studies me intently as though she can see into my blackened heart, one that has rotted and shriveled until I fear nothing that I accomplish will be enough to restore it to what it once was or to recast me into the man I should have been. "Your father didn't really come to me for conversation." I lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs, gripping the glass between both hands. She is my last hope for a reckoning, for proving I had no role whatsoever in my father's misguided attempt to put another on the throne. Other than my brother and sister, everyone I have ever known or cared about shuns me now. My other relatives, near and far, as well as those individuals I once considered friends, want nothing to do with me. I am a pariah, avoided at all costs. Even she treats me with cool disdain as though I am beneath her. My jaw clenches. Beneath her, a woman with no morals. "Perhaps he mentioned something that didn't blatantly regard the plot, something innocuous, a name, a portion of a conversation that made no sense or was without context. Tidbits of information must be burrowed in that beautiful head of yours that could at least place me on the correct path. He can't have f****d you every second he was in your company. Some words had to have been exchanged. Think, woman." "Think? How presumptuous of you to believe I haven't already given considerable contemplation to every syllable uttered by your father." She comes up out of the chair in a flourish of righteous indignation, and never in my life have I felt so looked down upon, so trivial. "You and your brother were dragged to the dungeon Tower. I was hauled to the station where the lycan police’s finest and most ruthless had a go at me. Interrogated. Intimidated. Accused. Then to prison for a spell in the hopes of breaking me so I might, too, confess to being involved in this ill-conceived conspiracy. Doubt thrown upon my reputation. My association with your father has ruined my life." Surging to my feet, I take a menacing step forward. "Yet you live in this luxury while I dwell in squalor." Caught in a storm of emotions, not wanting her to witness or decipher them, I march the three steps to the fireplace and stare at the empty hearth that so reflects the fruitlessness of my life. I am unwilling to accept that my quest is a waste of my time and efforts. I will never regain what I once possessed, but by the Goddess, I can at least ensure the next generation doesn't have to hang their heads in shame, that my father's embarrassing actions are overshadowed by my own more heroic ones. "Why now?" she asks softly, almost gently, when I would have sworn the woman didn't possess an ounce of tenderness. "Why your interest in finding the culprits now?" I toss back my scotch before admitting, "I have been trying to find them from the beginning." As a result of the dangers involved in my pursuit, I had been forced to abandon my younger brother and sister, occasionally giving them money when I secured some, but for the most part leaving them to fend for themselves. Isadora had worked in a bar, for the Goddess' sake. Until she crossed paths with Micah Tempest, and he offered her other employment. Eventually, she married him, and is, from what I have been able to gather, blissfully happy. Before she was under the protection of Tempest, Castor had lived with our sister, overseeing her well-being, and toiling on the docks. But once free of his responsibility to her, Castor joined me, for a short time, in my endeavors. However, my brother was not as suited to the shadows, nor did he have the patience for a resolution that was so slow in coming. He left to pursue his own quest and is now a club owner and husband. While Castor is willing to finance my obsession, I can't bring myself to take more than has already been given. I return to the chair, setting my empty glass on the delicate table beside it, waiting until she once more lowers herself. "Did Father ever mention Lucifer?" "As in the devil?" She asks. "Possibly." I heave a great sigh, rife with frustration. "I don't know. A man, a woman, a place, a thing. It's a name that crops up from time to time." She breathes in deeply, like she needs to steady herself. "In what manner? Where have you searched?" I shouldn't confide in her, but where's the harm, especially if I can unlock in her mind something my father might have told her? "There had to be others involved. Father didn't have the mental acuity for strategizing. He was a follower, not a leader. Therefore, it is possible the plotters are still preparing to strike. With that in mind, I have been striving to hear whispers of another attempt. I began by spying on my father's friends among the High packs. No joy to be found there. It occurred to me that if another Alpha is involved, he wouldn't do the deed himself, but would hire someone with the skills, a dodgy background, and other misdeeds in his past. I have made my way through the darker corners of Blackrock city, even letting it be known the Wolf was open to selling his services in hopes the schemers might hire me." She raises a finely arched auburn eyebrow. "The Wolf?" "An homage to the title that should have come to me." The alpha of Wolf fort. Only later did I realize the moniker didn't suit. Real wolves traveled in packs, like we are meant to part of a group, a family, while I prowled and hunted alone. "I suspect I came close to discovering something. I had to submerge myself deeper into the shadows to avoid those who wished to end my ability to breathe." Most women might have gasped or paled or appeared horrified, but she merely sips her scotch, her gaze level. "You were attacked?" "Multiple times." I admit. "Yet here you are." She point out. "Here I am." I had left the city for a while. I only recently let Castor know I have returned, but I never shared the details of what I was doing with Isadora. Although her husband knows the darker parts of this city as well, Tempest has more pressing matters to attend to these days as he recently discovered he is heir to a Prince title. She gives me a small knowing smile. "You must be very skilled at evading danger." "I have learned a few things, but not enough. Lucifer. Does the name mean anything to you?" I ask. "I'm afraid not." She says, shaking her head. I have to try everything so I ask. "You can think of nothing that my father might have uttered when lost in the throes of passion?" "f*****g me usually leaves men quite speechless." She says with a dark chuckle. I grimace at her crudity, but I set the combative tone for this meeting, and I am rather regretting that I took that tack. "I deserve that." "Yes, you do. I have a tendency to give men what they deserve." She shoots back. A small smile plays at the corner of her lips, indicating that she is referring to pleasure as well as comeuppance. I have the absurd thought that I wish I had discovered her before my father had. "I'm sorry I can't be of help," she says, regret lacing her words. "Well, it has been more than a year... perhaps if I had come sooner." I say, shaking my head lightly. "Why didn't you?" She asks. Because I couldn't stand the thought or sight of you. "I had hoped to spare you the bother." “It was no real bother,” she says. I come to my feet, and she follows suit, so gracefully. At some point in her life, she has been well tutored. "I apologize for disturbing your evening." "I had nothing pressing on my schedule. Should I recall something that might offer some assistance, where would I find you?" She asks. "You shan't. But leave a message with my brother at the Fair she-wolves and Spare men's Club." Castor owns the establishment where unmarried people seek companionship. "He will see that I get it." She nods. "Ah, yes, I have heard rumors about the Fair and Spare. It's quite the scandalous place from what I understand. Is he working with you then?" "No, but he knows how to get in touch." A lamp in an upstairs window signals when Castor places a message behind a loose brick in the facade at the rear of the club. "I shall see myself out. Good night." "I will walk you to the door." She says. I shake my head. "Not necessary." "What sort of hostess would I be if I left you to simply wander off?" She points out. I am tempted to ask how she met my father, how they came to be, why she went with an old man. But based upon how she lives, my father had done well by her, or someone had. Does she have a lover now? A woman such as her wouldn't go long without a protector. Before I can indulge my curiosity, I stride for the door. She easily keeps pace with me. The advantage of a woman with long legs, and I fight not to envision them wrapped tightly around my hips. It angers me that I should be so drawn to her, the vixen. I open the door, cross onto the landing, and when I would have pulled the door shut, I discover she has wedged herself into the opening. "Take care of yourself, Dimos Softpaw," she says quietly, and yet, it still sounds like a command. I wonder where she gained her confidence, wish some other reason had brought me to her, one that would allow for all the exploring of her in which I wish to indulge. I give a curt nod before jaunting down the steps, through the small wrought iron gate, and into the night.