The Road to Redemption (4 page)

Oh God.

No.

But even as he
protested, a wall of flame appeared in the distance. He tried to
run towards it, but his legs refused to obey his command. Lead
weights seemed to be holding him in place. Panic filled him. He had
to move. He had to save Beth! She was calling to him…

He struggled,
fighting the unseen hands that pulled at him.

“Beth!”

Damien jerked
into an upright position, his whole body shaking. He took in great
gulps of air, staring about the room in a frantic search for
something, anything, that would orient him. Surely, he was in his
own bed, his mate at his side, her body swollen with his unborn
child.

Yes, that had
to be true. His sweet Beth was beside him. Couldn’t he hear her
gentle breathing? Detect her delicate scent?

He swallowed
hard and inched his hand along the mattress, reaching out for the
familiar warmth, knowing with certainty that it would be there. Any
second now he’d feel the heat, encounter her soft flesh. A smile
began to form on his lips in anticipation of that first moment of
contact, but as he stretched his arm farther and farther, the smile
faded. His hand found nothing. Panic began to rise in him and he
splayed his fingers wider, searching, hoping… There was nothing to
find.

The sheets
were cold. The bed empty.

He was
alone.

Damien closed
his eyes and clenched the cotton material in his hand. His throat
grew tight as he shook his head in denial, fighting against the
emotion that welled inside and threatened to spill out.

It hadn’t been
a dream. His little mate was gone. His baby. Everything.

It was always
the same. Waking up terrified, smelling the smoke, feeling the
heat, hearing the sirens. He always hoped it was a nightmare,
prayed that it was. Surely if he wished hard enough, what he
wanted—needed—would become the truth. Wasn’t that how it worked?
Wasn’t that the lie that all the movies and books and songs would
have you believe?

A cynical
laugh escaped him.

Cold, hard
reality always arrived to kick him in the ass.

Letting his
body fall back onto the mattress, Damien stared at the ceiling.
They said it would get better with time, but what did they know? It
had been three years since his mate had died and still the dreams
persisted. True, he hadn’t had one in months, but when would the
torture finally end?

He tried to
move and realized the sheets were tangled around his limbs, the
sweat on his body making them cling all the more. The room felt hot
and stuffy; apparently there was no air conditioning. With a sigh,
he pulled himself free of the confining material then walked naked
across the room, a patch of moonlight showing the way. Not that he
needed guidance. The path to his backpack where he kept his whiskey
was easy to traverse. He took the bottle from the bag, uncapped it
then took a long swig enjoying the burn of alcohol as it slid down
his throat and hit his empty stomach.

Another pull
from the bottle burnt only slightly less than the first and he
exhaled loudly before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He
moved to put the cap back on, then shrugged and tossed the lid
aside. Gripping the neck of the bottle he wandered to the window
and opened it.

A whisper of a
breeze stirred the curtains as the night air drifted into the room.
It skimmed over him, drying the sweat that clung to his skin.
Damien snagged a chair and sat down, contemplating the night sky
with its dots of twinkling lights.

Experience
told him there’d be no more rest for him that night so why bother
trying to moderate his drinking? Instead, he’d spend the sleepless
hours staring out the window, drowning his sorrows.

Lifting the
bottle, he saluted the full moon. Somewhere out there werewolves
were celebrating the celestial event. He wondered if Samantha was
joining in the festivities. Was that why she’d been so abrupt with
him? Had she been late for a pack run? And where did wolves go for
a run in the heart of a city?

Damien tried
to imagine her with her pack, running through the back alleys or
perhaps a large park, playing with the other wolves, finding a
mate... He frowned and his fingers tightened around the bottle, an
uneasy feeling stirring within him at the image he was creating,
though why he didn’t know. What Samantha Harper did was none of his
business.

He shifted his
gaze from the window and noted his wallet sitting on the bedside
table. Reaching over, he opened it up and stared at the lone
photograph inside. Beth. He’d met her on a moonlit night such as
this. She’d been beautiful and shy and had looked so lost. He’d
fallen in love at first sight.

Slowly,
reverently, he traced her features with his fingertip. It had been
three years since he’d touched her, held her, pressed a kiss to her
soft sweet lips. Some people had hinted to him that he should move
on, find another mate. He shook his head. How do you love again
when your heart is dead?

Melancholy
threatened to overwhelm him again so he firmed his jaw and pushed
the memory away. He couldn’t afford to feel, at least not emotions.
The smoothness of the floor under his bare feet, the heat of the
whiskey in his gut... That was all he allowed himself. Only when he
slept did it manage to escape. Sleep was not his friend.
Unconsciousness however...

He laughed
darkly and tilted the bottle, his lips forming around the cool
glass. Drinking deeply, he wiped his mouth once again and slouched
down in the chair. His right leg rested in a patch of light and he
noted the scarred flesh. It was the only physical reminder of the
fire that had almost claimed him. Everything else had miraculously
healed or so the doctor had proclaimed.

Not
everything, he whispered to himself as his fingers clutched the
wallet in his hand. My body is alive, but my soul is dead. As dead
as the child I never held, as dead as my love, my Beth.

Closing his
eyes, he brought the whiskey bottle to his mouth and tipped his
head back once more.

By morning he
was numb. His werewolf metabolism prevented him from getting drunk
on human whiskey, but numb was good. As dawn broke, he pushed
himself from his chair and headed to the bathroom to shower. It
wouldn’t do to start his new job smelling like a brewery, and
working for another Lycan meant it was hard to hide his drinking
habit.

Kane had
threatened to beat the crap out of him if he didn’t stop, so he
had...while he stayed with them. It had been Elise’s reproachful
looks that had really kept him on the straight and narrow. For a
female Alpha, she was quiet, almost demure, but still managed to
keep the pack members in line with her soft suggestions.

He chuckled.
Samantha was a hell of a lot different from Elise, and from his
Beth. Last night, he’d thought he’d have to rescue her from that
creep at the bar. Instead, she’d wiped the floor with the man while
not even breaking a sweat.

And then, when
he’d followed her, she’d tried to ambush him. The resulting fight
had been a draw, perhaps because he hadn’t really wanted to hurt
her, though he had a sneaking suspicion she, too, had been holding
back merely wanting to test him. He grinned at the memory and shook
his head. Yeah, Samantha was something different.

A banging on
the door brought him out of his reverie and he realized he’d
showered on autopilot. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he made
his way to the door and opened it only to be greeted by his new
employer’s glowering face.

“Are you
drunk?” She spoke bluntly, eschewing all the normal social niceties
and barely gracing him with a glance before staring around the
room.

Damien raised
his eyebrows in surprise at her tone, then followed the direction
of her gaze. The empty whiskey bottles lay on the floor by the
chair in which he’d spent most of the night. “And good morning to
you, too. No, I’m not drunk, only pleasantly numb.”

“Good. We
don’t have time to waste waiting for you to sober up. If you’re
going to drink, do it on your own time.”

“And when is
my own time?” He leaned his hip against the nearby dresser and
folded his arms over his chest.

“Whenever I
say.” She flicked her eyes over his mostly naked body, showing no
signs of embarrassment. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs in the
kitchen. We’ll talk while you eat.” Without further ado, she turned
on her heel and left.

Damien
straightened and pushed the door shut fighting to keep an
unfamiliar grin from his face. God, she was a spitfire. And cool,
too. He had no false modesty over his appearance. It was a
well-documented fact that women still swooned over him, but she
hadn’t even batted an eye.

Drying himself
off, he dressed and made his way to the kitchen at a leisurely pace
despite the fact that he knew she meant for him to haul ass.
Samantha Harper could bark orders all she wanted. He’d obey only
when it suited him. And right now, it suited him to piss her
off.

Sam tried to
stop herself from drumming her fingers on the table top, but dammit
how long did it take the man to get dressed in the morning? He was
supposed to be a rogue, not some ‘pretty boy’ who styled his hair
before he left his room.

She took
another sip of coffee and reined in her temper. It could be he was
testing her, trying to get under her skin. A rogue would do that.
Well, she’d been in charge here too long for tactics like that to
work.

Purposely, she
assumed a leisurely posture; leaning back and propping her booted
feet up on the chair beside her. She didn’t usually wear her boots
around the house, but felt she needed the extra height to make a
point with Dante. From what she’d heard, he was an arrogant pain in
the ass, but that’s what she needed. Someone who exuded confidence,
someone who would keep Sinclair off-kilter. With any luck she’d be
able to bluff her way out of this whole stupid take-over scenario
and avoid an outright fight.

Finally, she
heard the sound of Dante coming down the stairs.

“Kitchen’s
back here,” she called out to ensure he didn’t start wandering
around before she laid down the law. Start as you mean to
continue.

The man
sauntered into the room as if he had nothing to do for the entire
day. He nodded at her, searched the cupboards looking for a mug and
then poured some coffee. Still not speaking, he found milk in the
fridge and added a splash to his cup, then grabbed a muffin from a
plate on the counter.

Sam watched
his progress. God, his body was gorgeous. She’d had a lovely view
of it in his room. He’d still been wet from the shower. It had
taken all her willpower not to allow her gaze to follow the tracks
of the water droplets as they trailed down his muscular chest and
abs before disappearing beneath the towel slung low around his
waist. Now he was suitably clothed, but he was just as impressive
to look at. The plain white t-shirt he wore clung to his torso,
while his well-worn denims showcased his long legs and lean hips.
She flicked her gaze to his face taking in his straight nose, and
high cheek bones. His dark hair was still damp and slicked back
from his face save for one recalcitrant lock that fell onto his
forehead. For some reason she wanted to reach out and brush it back
into place for him. Tightening her fingers around her cup, she
ignored the impulse and studied the hint of scruff covering his
lower face. It added to his dark and dangerous good looks. If she
was looking for a lover, he was exactly what she’d have
ordered.

However, it
was a Beta she needed, not a fuck buddy. Unsmiling, she followed
him with her eyes as he moved about the kitchen at a leisurely
pace. Taking long, slow sips of coffee was the only thing that kept
her from cursing him. That, and the need to prove that two could
play this game.

Finally, after
finding a plate and neatly cutting the muffin in half, he sat down
across the table from her.

“Find
everything you need?” She arched one brow.

“I think so,
thanks.” He took a bite of the muffin, chewed slowly, drank some
coffee and then leaned back in his chair. “These are good. Did you
make them?”

She snorted,
her mouth full of coffee, and proceeded to choke. Damn the man!
When she managed to catch her breath, she glared at him. “Do I look
like Suzy Homemaker to you?”

Dante studied
her for a moment, then shook his head. “No. My mistake. The muffins
are still delicious though.” He took another bite.

Sam barely
managed to keep from gnashing her teeth. “Listen, Dante. I—”

“Damien.”

She blinked.
“Pardon?”

“You called me
Dante. I’d prefer Damien.”

“Why?” She
narrowed her eyes.

He shrugged.
“Does a rogue need a reason?”

“This one sure
as hell does.” She folded her arms and set her chin.

“Fine.” A
subtle change came over him, the cold deadly look she’d seen the
previous night emerging, letting her know she was treading on
dangerous ground. “I change names every few jobs. Sometimes my
forms of employment aren’t strictly...legal...shall we say? And
leaving a continuous trail across the countryside can become
dangerous.”

Sam thought
about it for a moment. It made sense. “All right,
Damien
,
I’ll fill you in on the particulars while you finish eating and
then I’ll give you a tour.”

The hardness
faded from him, his expression became almost affable. “Thanks,
Samantha.”

She cringed at
the use of her full name. “Sam. Not Samantha.”

He paused with
the muffin half way to his mouth. “It seems to be a morning for
changing names, doesn’t it?” The corner of his mouth twitched as if
he’d been going to smile and then changed his mind. Okay, he
was
trying to irritate her!