Chapter 69

Charles is about to pack up his briefcase and head from his office back up to his living quarters. He's not looking forward to it, to be frank - Daisy has become more of a nightmare than usual to deal with lately.

Her pregnancy is now in its third trimester, and Charles isn't looking forward to the end result of that, either. She's as big as a house, for one thing, no longer the slender, beautiful woman he married when her bump was barely showing.

And she nags him all the damn time. It's always "Charles this" and "Charles that," just nagging on top of dissatisfaction on top of nagging. She's not happy with anything he does. He can see the contempt in her eyes when she looks at him.

Well, is it his fault he's never had any interest in being a father? The baby was a necessary tactic in getting her to marry him - he couldn't avoid that. It's hardly on him. She didn't have to keep it if she didn't want it.

Plus, there will be plenty of family and staff around to look after the little creature, once it arrives. Perhaps Daisy will turn maternal after she gives birth. Back off on the political ambitions and let Charles run things, as he should do as her husband, anyway.

Yes, Daisy is the Alpha's daughter and therefore the technical candidate for Alpha heir, but she's a woman. She's about to be a mother. She has no head for business or politics and should leave it to him; that's his arena.

Good lord, sometimes he thinks he made a mistake, getting himself entangled in this. He should have gone into human politics. It would've been easier.

He's just flicked off the light on his desk when his phone rings. Grateful for a reprieve, Charles flicks the light back on and answers the phone.

"Charles." The voice on the other end is calm, silky. It sends a shiver down Charles's spine. "I think it's time for us to meet."

Charles has to drive the car himself, which has him cursing as he peers through the lashes of rain hitting the windshield. Christ, he doesn't miss this. He hasn't driven himself anywhere since he married Daisy, and he's already become accustomed to the luxury.

At least he didn't drink too much at the office today. The last thing he needs is to run this car off the road because his head is too fuzzy. Or, worse, the public scandal that would come with a drunk driving ticket.

He eventually locates the dive bar that he was directed to find, with very strict instructions not to bring anyone else with him. Hence the damned solo driving. At least there's parking on the street here; he doesn't have to circle around in the rain like a fool.

His umbrella keeps him mostly dry as he jogs across the street and ducks into the place, shaking water off and wiping his feet on the grimy mat. Only one or two other patrons are here, and all of them look worse for wear, huddled over their cheap beer and whisky with their heads down.

Cheerful, Charles thinks sarcastically. Is this really where his billionaire backer wants to have a business meeting? It makes Charles question his taste - and his credentials. Still, he's in no position to argue. From what he's been told, his backer could have his neck snapped in an instant.

He ventures further into the bar and spots an imposing-looking figure sitting upright in the shadowy recess of the furthest back table. This must be his man; he's the only one who looks even vaguely alert.

Charles approaches, and the figure looks up, appraises him, and motions for him to sit. He does.

"Have a whiskey," the man says, leaning forward into the lamplight. Charles can see that he's a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of white hair and a large beard. Piercing blue eyes, colder than ice, peer out of a weather-beaten face. One long, angry-looking scar rakes down his left cheek.

Charles accepts the glass and takes a cautious sip - aside from personal drivers, he's also quite gotten used to the taste of Glenfiddich, thank you very much. But the whiskey is smooth, pure, with just a hint of smoke.

Charles can't hide the surprise on his face, and the man across from him chuckles. It's not a merry or comforting sound; his laugh is as cold as his eyes, like an icy brook running over stones in a wintery landscape.

"Yes, I carry my own bottle with me when I have to do business here," the man says. "I have an arrangement with the owner. Hefty corking fee, but at least it spares me from having to drink WIld Turkey all night."

Charles nods in acknowledgement but says nothing, because what can he say? He has no idea why he's been called here, and, to be honest, he's nervous. No, not nervous.

He's scared.

The man must sense his mood, because he gives that sinister chuckle again and refills his own glass before settling back and staring at Charles for a long moment. Eventually, he speaks.

"You know who I am, then?" he asks.

Charles isn't sure how to answer that. Of course he knows the man is his backer, but his backer knows that. It's as if he's expecting Charles to recognize him, which Charles doesn't. It's making him feel wrong-footed, and there's nothing Charles hates more than feeling wrong-footed.

The backer laughs again at Charles's hesitation.

"Oh, deary me," he says, a touch of sarcasm blooming in his tone. "And here I thought I'd invested in someone at least intelligent enough to recognize the precious Alpha wolf's only brother when he saw him."

Charles is staggered, so much so that he almost drops his whiskey glass. He hastily takes a sip and then sets it down with trembling hands.

My god, if this is the Alpha's brother, Charles is in deeper shit than he thought.

"The Alpha's - brother?" Charles asks croakily. The man laughs that unpleasant laugh again.

"Yes, Charles, the Alpha's brother. My name is Amos, and I must say, you've proven to be a terrible disappointment to me."

Charles is truly frightened, now. He's heard of the Alpha's younger brother. He is a cold, ruthless sociopath who tried to challenge Emmett's authority when Emmett was named Alpha. Emmett won, leaving his brother Amos with that terrible scar. Amos disappeared from the family after that, exiled by their father.

There are horror stories about Amos that have become almost horror story fodder in the whispered family gossip circles: Animals killed in stomach-turning ways when left unattended, the maid who screamed in the night and was gone the next morning, a youngest sibling's mysterious crib death.

Charles never thought he'd meet Amos, and he certainly has never wanted to. However, he's here now, and he's going to have to go forward.

Amos is watching him carefully, and Charles gets the distinct impression that the man can guess everything he's thinking. He gives Charles a cold smile and drinks his own whiskey, clearly relishing it on his tongue.

"I see you've heard of me," he says. "Good. Then I don't have to waste time convincing you of how serious this meeting is."

Charles's guts turn to ice, but he keeps a neutral expression on his face. He hopes.

"You have failed me, Charles," Amos says conversationally. "I have invested a lot of money in you, and I have yet to see any returns. This displeases me. I am not a man who enjoys being displeased."

"I – I'm sorry, sir; it's just that–"

"Be quiet," Amos snaps. "Now, you listen to me. You are a pathetic little worm, Charles. A useless weasel. You were the only one I could get close enough to in order to use for my ultimate ends, but you're proving more hopeless than I'd feared.

"You have yet to get control over the drug trade in this city, which I need if I'm going to control the underground finances. You have yet to murder my brother, which I need done before he officially names an heir, so I can step in.

"Instead, you piss around ineffectually and have squandered most of my money on flattering your ridiculous little human friends. Playing the big man on my dime."

Charles gulps.

"I strongly, strongly suggest that you pull your head out of your ass, Charles, and start giving me some results. Soon. Or it will be my great pleasure to remove that head from your shoulders."

Amos drains the last of his whiskey, gives Charles a wolfish grin, and then strides out of the bar.

Charles lets his head fall into his hands, trembling violently.

Dear god, what has he gotten himself into?