Prologue

The city pulsated with raw heat beneath the neon-veined strands of fake light. The garish jaundice of night filtered into the sodden pavements, mingling with the stark glare of government-imposed streetlights—casting uneasy shadows and doubt across the oblique tarmac of the streets.

She was unperturbed. The blood-red stain of her trench coat and her dark, unwavering eyes were all she needed to survive. Alluring. An enigma. By day she was a phantom, moving in-between circles, building networks—dealing in women.

By night, she was a predator—enacting their vengeance; stalking sterile conference rooms, haunting gaudy faux-gold executive lounges, infiltrating ostentatious hotel suites. Her confident, beguiling laugh, a siren call. She could extract information in a gentle stroke of a varnished nail tip. A contrived wink of an innocent obsidian eye. A seductress in red. Scarlett. Deep and dark and all kinds of imaginary bold—perfectly balanced with a soft, feminine gentility. Men fell into her dagger willingly. And she knew it.

Scarlett, a descendant of the original Red, had evolved somewhat from her great-great-grandmother, as is the nature of survival. The wolves of her predecessor’s time were far more suited to the sluice of men. Armoured and bound by an allegiance to the kings of the realm. Whichever realm. The protectors always wielded a bow, taut with privilege. And stained with deceit and false ideals.

Those were entirely different times.

She, who had once been the victim, enlivened with the blood of man—gorged readily on vicarious revenge—her red-stained lips would rid the city of wolves. Her fangs undetected until it was too late. For them. Alas, the frailty of man. Their vermillion iron surged into the fabric of her coat. Feeding her lifeblood. A trophy of sorts.

What once had been little. Usurped. Had grown into a beast to fear. The protector of her maternity. The hunted. Hunting.

A she-wolf reclaimed.