Big Bad Beast by Shelly Laurenston

Dee-Ann, you can handle interviewing anybody. As a cop . . . I know this.”
    Dee-Ann grunted in reply and walked out, and Dez went back to the counter and ordered herself two more cups of coffee. Because she knew this was going to be a really long day.

    It was a busy, midweek lunch rush and Ric’s kitchen was one dropped pan away from being “in the weeds.” Thankfully, they’d managed to avoid that and keep the food going out as quickly as possible without any major errors that would have his head exploding and him ripping into one of his crew.
    He slammed two plates down on the board. “Table ten up!” he called out and spun toward his oven, but stopped short when he scented one of his own through all those meats, herbs, blood, and other breeds.
    Ric looked up, his eyes narrowing, fangs sliding from his gums. With one leap, he was over the kitchen island, ignoring his scrambling-away crew, and latching on to the arm of the wolf trying to slink in. He yanked him into the hallway and out the back door into the alley. With one shove, he sent the kid slamming into the opposite wall.
    “What the hell are you doing here, Stein?”
    Stein Van Holtz, one of Ric’s younger first cousins, winced and moved his shoulder around. “No need to be so pushy.”
    “Out,” Ric ordered. “Or I’m sending my chief sommelier after you. She’s a sloth. She’ll beat you to death with one of the wine bottles.” Ric turned to walk back into his restaurant.
    “Wait!”
    Ric stopped, his hand on the alley door.
    “Please.”
    Ric glanced back at the kid. He didn’t look good. He was too lean, looked too old. He wasn’t getting enough food and his body was beginning to feed on itself.
    “I know how you feel about me,” Stein said. “I know how all of you feel about me. And . . . and you’re right, too. I fucked up. I know.” He scratched his forehead, struggling to find the right words. “I just need you to give me one more chance, Ricky. I hate that I have to ask. I hate that I have to beg, but I need—”
    “What?” Ric demanded, facing him. “Money? How much do you owe this time?”
    Stein winced. “I don’t want money.” He stopped, shook his head. “That’s a lie. I do want money.”
    “Of course.”
    “But I want to work for it. I’m not asking for a handout.”
    “You expect me to trust you in my kitchen again? After last time?”
    “I have no excuse for what I did last time. I know that.” Stein looked down at his feet. He wore Keds. Worn ones that seemed to be holding on by a few threads. His T-shirt and jeans didn’t look much better, and the denim jacket would be too small for him if he were his proper weight. This definitely wasn’t the cocky con artist who had sold spare equipment and expensive cuts of meat and seafood out of the back of Ric’s kitchen for three months. Right under Ric’s nose, too. And, because of that, Ric had felt certain he’d lose his kitchen to one of his other relatives. Losing one’s kitchen was the worst thing that could happen to a Van Holtz wolf, but Uncle Van had stepped in and overruled Ric’s father.
    A decision that, three years later, Alder had still not forgiven Van or Ric for. But dealing with Stein had been left up to Alder and he’d gone even farther with the twenty-year-old-kid—he’d forced him out of the Pack. And the kid had walked off without once looking back, his middle finger raised high in the air, heading right for Atlantic City, and based on the look of him, even more trouble.
    Back then, Ric had wanted to stop Stein. He’d wanted to explain that a wolf needed his Pack, but Alder wasn’t having that either. Because once Alder made up his mind, that was, tragically, the end of it.
    As for Ric, there were few things he would not forgive, but making him look bad in front of his father was incredibly high on the list. So he had no intention of forgiving Stein now or ever.
    But still . . . the kid looked like hell. Ratty clothes, dirty hair,