Page 9 of French Quarter Heiress

I don't bother to knock, simply barge right in like I have a standing invitation. And in a way, I suppose I do - the bulging envelope tucked under my arm is all the entry pass I need.

The commissioner's office is a study in contrast to the squalid workspace outside. Deep burgundy walls, plush carpet, leather furniture that probably cost more than most of his officers make in a year. The man himself sits behind a massive desk of polished black oak, a cut crystal tumbler of amber liquid close at hand.

He looks up as I enter, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of annoyance and avarice. He's a heavy-set man in his fifties, with jowls that quiver when he speaks and small, piggish eyes that never quite meet your gaze. His tailored suit strains at the seams, the waistcoat barely containing his ample gut.

"Beau," he says, his voice a nasal drawl thick with the affectations of Old World aristocracy. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this intrusion?"

I flash him a toothy grin, all animal charm and barely restrained menace. "Just here to pay my respects, Commissioner. And to make a little contribution to the policemen's benevolent fund, of course."

I toss the envelope onto his desk, watching as it lands with a satisfying thud. Beaumont eyes it hungrily, his tongue darting out to wet his fleshy lips.

"The Crescent City Wolves are feeling generous today," I continue, settling uninvited into one of the leather chairs fronting his desk. "Business has been good, and we believe in giving back to the community that has given us so much."

I lean back in the chair, letting my gaze drift around the room, taking in the expensive art on the walls, the antique bar cart in the corner. "Of course, we also believe in the importance of maintaining positive relationships with our city's esteemed leaders. Men like yourself, Commissioner, who understand the complexities of keeping order in a place like New Orleans."

Beaumont nods slowly, his hand drifting almost unconsciously to the envelope. "The Orleans Parish Police Department appreciates the support of all our city's... concerned citizens," he says, the words unctuous and insincere. "I'm sure your generosity will be put to good use in our ongoing efforts to keep the peace."

I nod, my grin sharpening. "See that it is, Renault. The Crescent City Wolves are always happy to do our civic duty. Just as long as our interests are given the...consideration they deserve."

The commissioner meets my gaze, a flicker of something cold and calculating in his small, avaricious eyes. "Of course, my dear boy. The OPPD is nothing if not sensitive to the needs of our most influential constituents."

I rise from the chair, straightening my tailored suit with a sharp tug. "Glad to hear it, Commissioner. The Wolves will be watching with great interest to see how you allocate our little donation. We're counting on you to keep our fine city safe… For the right people, of course."

And with that, I turn on my heel and stroll out, leaving Renault to contemplate the price of doing business with the wolves...and the even higher price of failing to meet our expectations. As I leave his office, I can't help but chuckle to myself. The dirty old bastard is so predictable, so easily bought. But then, most humans are. They're like sheep, content to follow whoever holds the biggest stick.

My good mood is short-lived, however. As I return to Bourbon street, I hear the sound of gunfire and screams coming from a few blocks away, in the direction of one of our clubs. I take off at a run, my heart pounding in my chest.

I round the corner just in time to see a group of my wolves engaged in a fierce firefight with a band of Delacroix enforcers. Bullets ricochet off the walls, sending chunks of brick and mortar flying.

I throw myself into the fray, my own gun already in my hand. I take down two of the vampires with quick, precise shots, with silver bullets directly to the heart, their bodies crumple to the ground like marionettes with their strings cut.

But even as I fight, my eyes are scanning the chaos, searching for one face in particular.

And then I see her.

Elise Delacroix, a vision in black and silver, her hair whipping around her face as she moves with preternatural grace. She's a whirlwind of death, her twin pistols spitting fire as she cuts a swath through my wolves.

For a moment, I'm transfixed by the sight of her. The deadly beauty of her movements, the fierce determination in her eyes. She's like a goddess of war, terrible and glorious in her fury.

And then, as if sensing my gaze, she turns. Our eyes lock across the battlefield, a wealth of unspoken emotions passing between us.

I don’t understand why I’m hesitating to act, but the image of her has me in a trance. There’s beauty in her cruelty, as much as I hate to admit it. And it’s an enticing sight, amidst the calamity surrounding us.

I shift into my primal form.

Anger, hatred, frustration... and something else, something deeper and more primal as I howl in bloodrage. The rest of the world falls away. The fighting, the screams, the blood and the bullets... none of it matters. There is only her and I, and the crackling tension that stretches between us like a livewire.

And then, as if on some unspoken signal we both spring into action. We meet in the middle of the chaos, our bodies slamming together with bruising force. Her fists fly at my face, my claws rake at her skin.

It's a dance of death and desire, a physical manifestation of the attraction and animosity that burns between us. We trade blows and insults, our words as sharp as any blade. "You filthy mongrel," she hisses, her eyes flashing with fury. "I'll see you dead for this."

I laugh, the sound harsh and guttural. "You'll have to get through me, princess. Which is not going to happen." I growl in my guttural wolf speak.

We spin and whirl, our movements a blur of supernatural speed and grace. She's fast, faster than any human could ever hope to be. But I'm stronger, my wolf form lending me an edge in sheer brute force.

And yet, even as we fight, I can't help but marvel at her skill, her ferocity. She's like a force of nature, a hurricane in silk and lace. And despite everything, despite the blood feud that divides us, I can't shake the feeling that we're connected in some fundamental way. As if reading my thoughts, she snarls, her fangs bared in a vicious grin. "You're nothing to me, wolf. Just another mangy cur to be put down."

I shake my head, my own smile slow and dangerous. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. But we both know there's more to this than just business."

---