Gifted

Chapter One - Hunter

Fucking Prick.

I wanted to grab him by the scruff of his scrawny neck and smash his goddam ugly face into my nice new George the third-period mahogany desk.

But I couldn't do that, because he was the chief of the Metropolitan Police, Dave Watkins. And I despised the creepy fucker. Almost as much as the lying two-faced Alpha of the East London's wolf pack, Adrian Palmer who sat next to him.

My wolf clawed at the back of my mind, itching to surface and sink its teeth deep into their throats and end my torture.

Sitting back in my chair, I listened to the pair argue between themselves, not giving a shit for the politics of humans or wolves. They both bored me senseless.

Turning to my left, an ache in my head exploded. It felt stuffed full of cotton and my gut felt as fragile as a sacrificial virgin. I wasn't hungover—hangovers were for pussies.

What I was feeling was more like halfway dead and being bored to death by these two whiney fuckers would literally drain the rest of the life of out me.

I squinted one eye at Palmer. "Listen Adrian, who's to say he didn't kill himself, yeah?"  Honestly not giving a rats-arse if his second in command had killed himself or not.

"What the fuck?" Adrian snarled, glaring at me.

That pissed me off, right there.  How dare this prick not address me with the respect I'd earned—My family earned over the hundreds of years looking out for these wasters.

"What the fuck Sir or Mr Stone to you... remember that, yeah?" My head pounded.  It would have been fine if there wasn't so much blood in my alcohol system.  Urgh!   I really needed some paracetamol.

Adrian glared at me, like he wanted to rip my spine from my body, with his teeth.   

C'mon, try it sunshine, and I'll rip you a new one and then our creepy friend from the Met can fuck you in it!

"What the fuck... Sir,"  he answered, teeth clenched tightly together. "There is no way Alfie killed himself, he was murdered. I'm telling you this as a fact.  And it was one of your lot!" He turned to glare at Watkins.

Watkins shifted in his chair; his mouth down-turned. "Well, it looked like suicide to my lads, so I have no intention of putting any man-power on this one. It's an open and shut case for us."

Smug bastard.

Normally, I would have hit this on the head.   But this had been the fourth death in London alone within the four packs that held territories, and surely they all couldn't be suicides?

But if the humans didn't want to touch this with a barge poll—that suited me just fine. I would stick Gunner on it, he would get to the bottom of it. "Thanks for coming in Chief, I'll take it from here."

Watkins nodded and stood to leave, straightening his cheap arse'd suit that I wouldn't even buy for a homeless person. 

The ache in my head throbbed.  Forgetfully, I reached for my phone to request my personal assistant get me something for the pain.  But stupidly—I'd fucked her over my nice new desk and expected her to carry on like nothing had happened.   I mean why did it have to mean anything?

Why did every fucking woman seem to think a one-night stand meant anything?

Yeah, I  know what you're thinking—what a wanker.   

But I'd always been a high-achiever, and satisfaction was a given, so they had no room to complain.  And  I'd never had any complaints in that department - Ever!  So why couldn't they just say 'thanks,'  and move on?