Chapter 149.
James Clarkson looked at the beautiful woman sitting in his private office, her long legs crossed, as the tight black pencil skirt moulded to her hips. If he was ten, well, in reality, twenty years younger, and not happily married, she would have been the type of woman to turn his head. Back in the days when he wore a uniform, fighting for what was then, queen and country. Now though he served his fellow countrymen and women,, as their Prime Minister, and visited the King weekly with updates, on how things were progressing.
He let out a sigh, the political navigation of the werewolf issue had to be handled with kid gloves. The populists had split into three distinct groups. Those who wished to kill the beasts that they had lived and worked alongside without any prior issue,
