Betrayed: Book Two - The Road to Redemption

by Nicky Charles

  Good. Maybe he was only annoying first thing in the morning…or when he’d been drinking. She frowned recalling the smell of whiskey that had permeated his room. If she caught him drinking on duty, she’d have to rip him a new one. Setting her mug down, she proceeded to lay down the law.

  Chapter 3

  Damien followed Samantha—no, make that Sam—out of the kitchen for an official tour of the pack house. She’d held up well against his attempts to annoy her and he was impressed. He couldn’t quite figure out exactly why he felt the need to get under her skin. This was a job and it would be better if he pandered to her more, got on her good side so she’d open up to him. Of course, kissing up too much might seem suspicious and he doubted he could do it for very long. He rubbed the back of his neck. Hell, he’d just play it by ear and see how things went; that’s what he and Reno, his old partner, had always done.

  She’d been blunt about her expectation of his behaviour. No drinking on the job. No fighting with pack members. No illegal activity. Interactions with the local humans were to be kept to a minimum. If any humans asked, he was a friend on vacation.

  He’d nodded, raising no protest as he’d finished his meal. Pretty standard stuff.

  “Dining room. TV room.” Sam led him through the house and Damien looked at each with interest, automatically noting exits and inconsistencies in the rooms’ structures. Old homes like this sometimes had hidden passages or trap doors. Useful information in a pinch. All the rooms were a good size, though there was evidence that the original floor plan of the house had been altered at some time.

  “You’ve done some renovating, I see.” He studied the floorboards noting how the wood changed halfway through the room. A wall must have been there at one point.

  She made a non-committal sound. “Some previous Alpha likely thought they’d need more room for pack meetings.”

  Damien nodded and gestured towards the ornate tables. “And all the antiques? They don’t seem quite your style.”

  Sam barely glanced towards where he was indicating. “Collected over the years. Apparently my grandmother enjoyed them, but I’ve too much to do to be worried about furniture.”

  “Some have been moved recently, I take it.” Damien stared at a patch of darker flooring. Something large—a bookcase, perhaps—had once sat there, protecting the wood from being faded by the sun. Strange that it would have been relocated after so many years.

  “What’s with all the questions? I thought you were a rogue, not some sort of freakin’ interior designer.” Sam turned and planted her hands on her hips, a mixture of disbelief and exasperation on her face.

  Damien held back a chuckle. Sam Harper didn’t seem to have much of a filter between her brain and her mouth. “Rogue, yes. Designer, no. I’m just observant. I don’t know a Chippendale from a Hepplewhite.”

  “A what?” She blinked.

  “Chippendale and Hepplewhite. They were furniture designers. My mate liked antiques.”

  “You’re mated?”

  If she hadn’t touched on a sore subject, the look on her face might have made him laugh out loud. As it was, he scowled and automatically drew his protective wall around himself. “Was. She died a little over three years ago.”

  “Oh. I’m…er…sorry.”

  “No need to be. You had nothing to do with her death.” He stared at her, eyes shuttered and ready to fend off a barrage of nosey questions. She didn’t ask any though and, after a beat, he verbally prodded her. “The tour?”

  She nodded. “The office is this way.” Sam headed towards the front of the house, her expression giving no indication as to how she felt about his abrupt change of subject. Not that he cared. He didn’t discuss Beth with anyone.

  Damien made no more comments as he followed her, only half listening as he mulled over something that had just struck him. When she’d asked about Beth, the searing pain that always appeared in his heart at the mention of his mate had only been a dull twinge. Given the night he’d spent, he’d expected his emotions to be raw, but for some reason they weren’t. After all this time, the pain of Beth’s memory was almost like a friend, a constant in his life that reminded him of all he’d lost. Why hadn’t he felt it just now? Were his emotions dulled from his night of drinking? Had the well of grief finally run dry? No. That wasn’t possible. His love for Beth would live forever. Hadn’t her last words to him been ‘never forget’?

  “You with me, Dante?” Sam’s voice intruded on his thoughts.

  “Damien,” he corrected automatically. “What were you saying?”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Pay attention if you expect to keep this job. Rogues are a dime a dozen.”

  Her tone of voice stirred his temper. He wanted to counter that the cost of hiring him would be a lot more than a dime, but he kept his mouth shut and merely raised a brow in query.

  “I was explaining that the office is out of bounds unless I’m with you. No snooping in the files. No answering the phones. Stay away from the computer; it’s password protected.”

  Damien leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “Then exactly what am I supposed to do as Beta? That is the position I was hired for, isn’t it?”

  Sam looked him up and down then snorted. “Act impressive. Be the ‘big, strong, he-man’ that everyone expects an Alpha to be.”

  She moved to brush past him, but he blocked the doorway with his arm. Even though he wasn’t the rogue she’d hired, her casual dismissal of him rankled and he wasn’t going to put up with it. Plus, he needed to figure out exactly what was going on with this pack. Kane had sent him here to gather information and pack hierarchy was a good place to start. “So why do you need me? Why not promote one of your own members to the Beta position rather than putting on an act?”

  Sam glared at him. He could see the battle waging inside her and wondered if he’d pushed too hard. She clenched her hands into fists and he prepared himself to dodge a blow. Instead, she turned, walked over to the desk and sat on the edge. “Close the door.”

  After eyeing her for a moment, he complied. “What, exactly, is going on here?”

  She exhaled loudly then pursed her lips and looked away. It was obvious she was reluctant to answer his question.

  A second ticked by and then another. Damien hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and leaned against the door, ankles crossed. “Are you going to tell me or should I go looking for the Alpha? I assume Sam Harper is your father.”

  His comment had her snapping her eyes back at him.

  “Assume. Ha! That’s what everyone does.” A bitter look twisted her face and she shoved off from the desk and strode towards the window. Pushing the curtain aside, she gestured at the street that ran in front of the house. “The whole world assumes an Alpha has to be a male. Even the humans out there, with their insipid paranormal books, have men leading every pack they write about.”

  Damien nodded. “And your point is…?” She scowled at him and an idea slowly began to form. “You? You’re the Alpha of the Chicago pack?” He wasn’t able to mask the incredulity in his voice. Kane had said she was the spokesperson.

  “Acting-Alpha.” Her chin lifted slightly and her eyes narrowed as if she were daring him to challenge her. “My grandfather has been unwell for some time, but he hasn’t abdicated his title yet.”

  “And your father?”

  “Died when I was four, though according to the stories I’ve heard, he was never interested in the position.” A shadow passed over her face before she squared her shoulders and gave him a challenging look. “My grandfather raised me to take over the pack and I have. It’s just not official on paper.”

  Damien gave a long low whistle. Female Alphas were rare and most often occurred when the Alpha died and his mate took over. To encounter one, even an acting one, this young was unheard of. “Samuel Harper. Samantha Harper.” He nodded. “The similarity of your names helped you keep this under wraps.”

  “A fortunate twist of fate. Being his namesake has allo
wed me and my pack to stay off the radar. If anyone found out a ‘female’ was in charge we’d be deluged with takeover attempts or wanna-be Alphas trying to weasel their way in through mating with me.” She returned to the desk, picked up a piece of paper and after glancing at it, threw it down again. “And we were managing perfectly well until Kane Sinclair started to poke his nose into our affairs.”

  “And my being the pack Beta is supposed to impress him?” Damien quirked a brow, wanting confirmation of what he’d begun to suspect.

  She nodded. “You’ll lend an air of ‘male authority’ to the image the pack administration presents if the chauvinistic old goats at Lycan Link start to investigate us.”

  “Which brings me back to my original question. Why not use someone from your own pack?”

  A faint beeping sound interrupted and Sam glanced at her watch. “Sorry. I’ll explain later. I have a meeting I need to attend.” Damien was sure he detected a hint of relief in her voice, but let it pass. She crossed the room swiftly and he stepped aside so he was no longer blocking the door.

  “You can finish exploring the house and the neighbourhood while I’m gone. Stay away from the north wing on the second floor – those are my grandfather’s quarters. He’s not well and needs his rest.”

  “I understand.” He placed a hand on her arm to stop her. “Does the rest of the pack know why I’m here?”

  “They do. I don’t have to shield my pack mates from the truth.” She shrugged his hand off her arm. “You’ll find we’re a strong, resilient bunch.”

  “I’m sure you are,” he murmured softly as he watched her leave. “But are you up to facing Kane?”

  The doorbell jingled merrily overhead as Sam entered Marcello’s Antiques and Collectibles. Its cheery sound was in stark contrast to the grim look on her face. She was supposed to meet with Mr. Marcello at ten o’clock and she was late. She hated being late. It spoke of carelessness and a disregard for schedules and order.

  For a moment, she paused just inside the shop allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The place was packed with collectibles and it wouldn’t do to go blundering about. While her eyes grew accustomed to the darker venue, she took in the familiar scents of wood, leather, dust and age. After the bustling noise of the street, it was almost shocking how calm the atmosphere was; the quiet, steady ticking of a clock, the sound of a kettle simmering somewhere in the back. It was like stepping back in time, and she felt the tension begin to ease from her shoulders.

  She’d lied to Damien when she claimed to know nothing of antiques; her grandfather and Mr. Marcello had been friends for years. She’d spent a great deal of time here as a child studying the cases of old jewellery and trinkets, trailing her fingers over ornately carved furniture while the two men had shared a glass of cognac. While she might not be an expert, she could usually tell if a piece was worthy of its price or not.

  The old grandfather clock in the corner gave a whir and began to chime for ten o’clock. It was always fifteen minutes slow which meant she was fifteen minutes late.

  “Keep your eye on the clock,” her grandfather had drilled into her. “Once time is gone, you can never get it back again. An Alpha has too many responsibilities to be allowed to waste time.”

  He was right. The jobs were never ending, and the extra time she’d spent with Dante—Damien—meant she’d likely be behind all day.

  The tension returned to her shoulders once again. Striding to the back of the shop, Sam brought her hand down rather more forcefully than necessary on the small bell that sat on the counter. The ting that rang out from it was demanding, reflecting her impatience. Faint rustling sounds could be heard coming from behind a curtained doorway and then it parted revealing Mr. Marcello. He was a short, round, Italian gentleman of indeterminate age.

  “Ah, Miss Samantha. I was thinking of you only a moment ago.”

  She didn’t cringe when he used her proper name. Mr. Marcello was an old-world gentleman who still clung to the ways of the past. Besides, he’d known her since she was a child.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  He glanced at a cuckoo clock on the wall and gave a negligent shrug; he never seemed to be in a hurry. “Barely past the hour. Nothing to worry about.”

  Sam disagreed with him but kept the comment to herself. “You sold the bookshelf?” She mentally crossed her fingers hoping Mr. Marcello’s expertise at getting the best deal possible had worked once again.

  “I did. It was a fine piece of furniture in excellent condition. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the price I was able to get for it.” Mr. Marcello removed the bill of sale from his ledger and showed it to her.

  It was an impressive sum, far more than she’d expected and the heavy weight that had settled in her stomach for the past week disappeared as she contemplated all the bills she could pay; there’d even be a tidy sum left over. She didn’t let her relief show, of course. The pack’s finances were a private matter. “Thanks. I appreciate you handling this matter discreetly for me.”

  “Not a problem. The selling of family heirlooms can be a touchy subject in the best of circumstances and given your grandfather’s temperament…” He shook his head and made a face. “I recall about ten years ago…” Mr. Marcello launched into a recount of some incident and she nodded politely, not really listening.

  The money from the sale meant she wouldn’t have to touch the principal of their remaining investments. And if she could reinvest the interest and if the stock market would cooperate…

  “— and so, I will write you a cheque and we are done for today, correct?” Mr. Marcello must have finished his tale for he was preparing to hand over payment.

  “Cash. No cheques.”

  He smiled and inclined his head. “Oh course, how could I forget?” He put the cheque book away. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Sam nodded and waited as the older man went to the rear of the store to where his safe was located. He wouldn’t keep that much cash in the till. Too dangerous in this neighbourhood. Some might say it was also too dangerous for her to be walking down the street with that much money in her pocket, but she wasn’t worried. Protecting herself wasn’t an issue. Keeping her transactions secret was. Cash was harder to trace.

  ‘Leave as few trails behind you as possible’ her grandfather had always said. Not that it really mattered in this instance, but you never knew when a seemingly innocent act could become significant. At the moment, selling a few pieces of furniture wasn’t a problem. No one noticed or cared that they were missing—no one except Damien, that is.

  She frowned. The man hadn’t even been in the house for twenty-four hours and he’d picked up on the missing bookshelf. She’d never noticed how the floor had faded, but he’d immediately homed in on it. Making a mental note to rearrange the furniture to hide the mark on the floor, she erased the worried lines from her face as Mr. Marcello reappeared.

  He handed her a thick envelope and she opened it to count the money within.

  “It’s all there, Miss Samantha. After years of doing business together, you should know you can trust me.” The shopkeeper tutted as if offended. He wasn’t, of course, but he liked to pretend to be.

  “I do trust you, Mr. Marcello, but I was born cautious.” Sam turned her back towards the door in case anyone happened to come in and took out a few bills to examine. Counterfeit money wouldn’t do her any good.

  “You were not born cautious, Miss. Samantha. That is your grandfather’s doing.”

  “Perhaps.” She gave the man a half smile and slid the money back into the envelope. “All there and in order.” Lifting her shirt, she tucked the envelope into the front of her pants and then pulled her shirt down over top of it. A quick glance in a nearby mirror revealed the envelope was unnoticeable. “Until next time.” Giving Mr. Marcello’s hand a firm shake, she strolled out of the shop and into the hot, steamy street.

  A late summer heat wave had settled over the city and refused to leave despite t
he fact that it was September. The envelope tucked in her clothing stuck to her skin and crinkled softly as she walked. Not loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, but she was aware of it. She resisted the urge to readjust the package and continued on her way, pushing between the pedestrians, waiting impatiently for the traffic light to change so she could cross the street.

  For some reason she felt twitchy today; that weird sensation that something was off, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. She wondered if someone was following her—a mugger with a death wish perhaps—and ducked into a store, making a show of looking at a stack of used books, while surreptitiously looking out the window. Several pedestrians walked by, then a cop. A large man with a scar on his cheek caught her attention, but he didn’t linger. Just to be on the safe side, she slipped out the back door and cut through the alleyway to the next street over.

  It was a tough neighbourhood, but her determined walk and don’t-mess-with-me face usually meant she was never bothered by any of the locals. In her boots, jeans and t-shirt, she looked like she belonged, and she did.

  She’d grown up prowling the streets, getting into fights, making a name for herself with a certain segment of society. Her reputation was well known by the human population in this corner of the city. In her late teens, some had viewed her as being akin to a gang leader but she’d mellowed since then. Those who lived in the neighbourhood knew she wasn’t interested in controlling the drug dealers, prostitutes or petty thieves. Indeed, she’d been known to step in when the criminal element was causing someone grief. Yet she wasn’t a vigilante, either. Sam Harper was no Lone Ranger or Robin Hood.

  Well, the humans could puzzle over her, but she knew her purpose. It was caring for her pack; ensuring the members were safe, fed and had a roof over their head. That’s what an Alpha did and that’s what she intended to keep on doing.