Beta Kaels Rogue Mate

Megan Pov

     Clyde yells to me from the kitchen, "Hey, Meg." "It's Sharon's break. Please take table twelve.

     I cringe a little bit. I wouldn't say I like the name Meg. However, I pretend to be polite and say, "Of course, Clyde," to him. After that, I quickly grab my apron and take their order.

     Like me, Clyde is a rogue. However, it is essentially where the similarities stop. Since he owns the restaurant and humans and wolves use it, Clyde is the only outlaw in the area treated with respect.

     He is aware that I detest the term "Meg." But because he's the only one willing to offer me a job and I need the money, I don't call him on it.

     He questioned me about my experience throughout the interview.

     "None," was my response.

     That's my life's solution to a lot of questions.

     No prior experience.

     Not a pack?

     Guardians? Not one.

     None, mate.

     I hastily return to table 12 to take their lunch order. I'm halfway there when I feel my butt being tightly pinched by two stony fingers. Enough to make me yell. I whirl around a feral sneer on my lips. But the moment I realise who the butt-pincher is, my expression goes blank.

     A man sitting at a table with two other men snickering smiles up at me; he has sandy hair and bright green eyes. I recognize this face. He is the local pack's Gamma, and he visits at least once a week to brag about his two best fighters and have pep talks about rogues.

     He is attractive. He's powerful. He has a beautiful scent. Plus, he's a complete, unredeemable jerk.

     The Gamma looks up at me and says, "Sorry."

     Await. I'm sorry. Did the Gamma give me a sincere apology?

     Then his grin becomes a sneer. "I mistook you for someone else. As it happens, you are a nobody. My error.  That makes him and his friends laugh heartily.

     Me, I'm biting my tongue. I bite it, nearly to the point of bleeding, as there's no other way to stop myself from saying anything I may later regret. For far less than a hurtful remark, someone like him would murder someone like me, and not even Clyde would have the audacity to attempt to stop him.

     I let him chuckle, said nothing, and went to wait on table 12 since that's what I do for a living. It's The only item I own.

     Because I am that way. Meg the Nilpotent.

**

     As I'm counting out the register as it gets close to closing time, Clyde approaches and says, "Hey, Meg."

     "It's Megan l," I whisper to myself. But he ignores me if he hears it.

     Grant me a favour. He displays a manila package that has been well cushioned, folded inside out, and secured with red tape. Please put this away for me.

     I clear my throat instead of scoffing. "You know I don't have an automobile, Clyde."

     "I see." He sounds almost apologetic. Nearly. "But I'm already running late, and I have tickets to the game."

     "This isn't the type of thing I can turn down?" I query him.

     With a smirk, he tells me not to keep it and places the envelope beside the cash register. "You recall the location of the drop point?"

     "It is."

     "A good girl," With one last grin, Clyde darts out the door.

     Okay, As an example, I am a kid. For heaven's sake, I'm twenty, not that anybody is aware of it or gives a damn.

     After fifteen minutes, I close the dining room door, switch off the lights, and enter the balmy spring evening. That's when I realise I'm still wearing my apron over my "uniform," which consists of only a black pair of slacks and black shoes with a white t-shirt underneath. At least I'm done for the day, even if I swear my hair will always smell like hamburgers and fries.

     Or almost completed. Just one task to do.

     Clyde's monthly donation to the local pack is in a thickly filled envelope, sealed with red tape. He agreed with their Alpha years ago to establish and run a cafe in their territory, promising them a calm environment free from violence and strife in exchange for his monthly payment.

     It's three miles from the drop point. Fortunately, I like running and am relatively quick, so I go that way. If I shifted, I could run much faster, but what would I do with the envelope? Have I spoken it aloud to myself? It would then be completely soaked. Not to add that the Alpha himself may show up and inquire as to whether the money was tampered with if the red tape broke.

     Feeling the wind in my hair, I run in human shape. And I daydream when I run. It may seem nerdy, but that doesn't bother me. All you have to cling to when you have nothing is hope. I withdraw into my thoughts and relive the enchanted fantasy I've had since turning eighteen: that I would meet the person I could call my own, and he would carry me away from this place and whisk me away.

     My charming prince.

     My ideal fulfilled life.

     My friend.

     It is, of course, just a fantasy. After working at the restaurant for two years, I've probably had at least one encounter with every male wolf within fifty miles. I'm sure he's out there, someplace. I'm not sure, however, but "somewhere" maybe Sri Lanka.

     I drop to a trotting speed, realising that this is a new road I'm on and not because I'm tired. By this time, I should be nearly at the drop point. Usually, I jog along a route through the shorter park, but this trail is made of old dirt instead of pavement, and the trees that line it are more significant, bushier, and less well-maintained than they should be.

     Did I turn the wrong way? Was I lost in my thoughts to the point that I failed to see my direction? God, where have I gone?

     If most females discovered they were wandering in the woods alone at night, I imagine they would become terrified. Nonetheless, I like the night and find my vision sharper during the day. My night vision is so acute that I can see the mark clearly on a neighbouring tree.

     It would seem to any human as an oddly coloured, crooked knot. However, it looks like a brown paw print to my excellent eyesight.

     I mumble, "Oh crap," and a moment later I smell something. It's the distinct scent of a wolf.

     I've ventured into the domain of the pack. And I've fed the conceited Gamma enough lunches to know that a trespassing rogue faces arrest or execution.

     A second later, the roar that breaks my reverie is enough to get my legs moving again. A howl's tone and pitch may convey a multitude of meanings, but that particular howl gives me chills down my spine and gives me a boost in the step because it can only mean one thing: I'm being pursued.

     After plunging down the route for a few yards, I understand how foolish it would be for me to continue pursuing it. That would be like attempting to escape from prison by rushing to the front door.

     I stray between two trees and off the well-travelled route. Something rustles quickly and much too near for comfort. My assailant is closing the gap.