Beta Kael's 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.

I keep sprinting, my survival instincts activating, my head going into overdrive.

To my right, movement. One more rustle. One more runner.

My heart begins to race. I can't quit even if my lungs hurt. For me, this cannot be how it ends.

The next howl is getting closer; in fact, it sounds so near that my mind is buzzing with anxiety. It hurts to realise I'm making enough noise to wake the whole forest as I smash through the trees.

I hear someone else panting, so I take a risk and look over my shoulder. Hot on my trail comes a massive wolf with sable-coloured fur. I can feel his scorching breath on my calves in only two steps.

I attempt to accelerate quickly, but the wolf jumps. He leaps over me with a substantial leap and lands elegantly a few steps ahead of me, preventing me from making a move.

With malice in his eyes, the wolf chases me, and I freeze.

In an instant, I decide on something.

To be more precise, I make a split-second, really dumb judgement.

I charge forward instead of halting, and I kick out my right leg just before I hit the wall of fur and muscle in front of me. My black shoe makes firm contact with the wolf's mane. I keep going while he yells and rolls.

You moron! I give myself a mental scream. You hurt one of them off! You're no longer alive!

I have lost whatever opportunity I could have had to defend myself. All I can do is try to cross the border before they find me. I hope that they quit trying to see me.

Whoa! My dishrag!

With my free hand, I rip at the knotted threads around my waist as I run. Though absurd, the strategy could be sufficiently ridiculous to succeed. I pull off the apron and throw it to my right.

I then turned left.

But then I see a towering guy standing before me, and I stop dead.

His face and hair are dark as he glares down at me. His eyes glared. A sneer curved a lip.

And although I realise it's a strange notion, at that very time, my mind went into overdrive, and I thought, Well, at least I'll be murdered by the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen.

He's wearing a white t-shirt that seems to gleam in the moonlight and black pants. The short sleeves push up against impressive biceps crisscrossed with dark tattoos that are difficult for me to make out.

I can't seem to move because I can sense how furious he is.

I glimpse his eyes as he tilts his head slightly, perhaps in an attempt to make sense of things. Staring into them is like floating on a summertime, crystal-clear lake. They're blue but outrageously blue.

Hey, who are you? He growls in a scratchy voice, and I find myself backing away since I can tell he's expecting a response.

Thus, maybe he won't murder me at first.

"I-I didn't intend to trespass," I mumble, terrified and sweating through my clothing.

He growls and moves closer to me, saying, "But you did transgress." "You are an outlaw."

Not merely fear is causing my heart to beat quickly. I'm unable to identify it; it's something else. It's a weird thrill that makes my wolf sit up.

"Yes, I do, but it's not what you think," I stammeringly attempt to clarify. "I wasn't intending to come here."

"If it was an error, you ought not to have fled," His eyes narrowed in my direction.

I swallow and confess, drizzling my chapped lips, "Yeah. True enough. To defend myself, however, I just—I made a flying gesture with my hands—ran because I feared you were going to murder me for trespassing.

With a narrowed gaze, he asks, "Do you find this funny?"

Slowly, I reply, "No." "I'm afraid." However, I find that I speak a lot when I'm afraid, and you're frightening, so I worry that you could still murder me.

I think I saw the corner of his mouth quiver for a second.

At last, he replies, "You're behaving fairly guilty."

"Defence mechanism," I responded right away. "That's my face."

He pauses a few steps away from me and says, "Okay," "Give me a solid excuse not to murder you. Why have you come to this area?

I blink, feeling as if part of the terror has subsided, and I realise why I am really in this circumstance. Me

Extend the bundle.

"I needed to give something away," I'm starting to get a little anxious again regarding your Alpha.

"Is this what?" As he approaches, his voice becomes harsher.

His aroma intensifies. Stimulating. Abruptly, I am pretty embarrassed by my greasy stench, and I'm starting to have an odd constriction in my chest.

I struggle to speak, but I'm unable to.

Alright? With a raised eyebrow, his eyes gleam.

"D-Diner," I stutter, suddenly feeling quite overwhelmed. "From the cafe."

He grabs the parcel. His finger brushes against mine as he does.

From the base of my head to my feet, an electric sensation shivers down my spine, weakening my knees. I briefly felt dreg. The man pulls back his hand as if I had burnt him.

Gosh, oh gosh.

He also sensed it.

I have been following it all this time. I wonder if it will ever occur.

I dare to see his too-blue eyes. I look shocked, but his eyes become even more intense and enraged, the hint of humour vanishing, as if I've just spoken the worst imaginable.

I found him. I've met my soulmate. And there's nothing but hatred and rage in his eyes.