Beauty & the Betrayer

Gerwalta Faust may be the youngest daughter of the Red Matron, but she is still a capable warrior, a righteous wolf-watcher. She knows better than to trust a lupine, especially one as handsome as Andreas Baron.
Andreas despises the wolf-watchers, but what self-respecting werewolf wouldn't? They lord over his kind, ruling with ruthless silver fists. The last thing he wants is to spend time with one, let alone come to see her as something more than the blood red cloak she wears.
But as Andreas and Gerwalta set out to retrieve a runaway wolf, they discover not the beasts they expected, but the beauty within. Each fights against the tendering of their heart, knowing that there is one immutable law neither can outrun: it is a crime for a wolfsretter and a lupine to love.
A crime punishable by death.
Beauty and the Betrayer is the story of Die Verräterin, the infamous betrayer referenced in the contemporary paranormal urban fantasy fairytale, the Red Hood Chronicles.

Even as Gerwalta trailed her eldest sister down from the keep, the silver in her had pooled and transformed, changing its contours with the whims of her mind. Though the outer bailey walls of Schloss Wolfsretter would bar a werewolf’s entry, the sword she’d visualized into being would be a critical weapon if the beast came looking for a fight.
“West gate, hurry,” Helga directed.
Gerwalta doubled her pace. Even lacking time in the field to intimately predict lupine nature, she deduced that a single wolf, alone and wearing his laymen form, willingly approaching the sacred fortress of the House of Red, wasn’t looking for a fight. Unless he wanted to die, in which case his wish would be granted forthwith.
“A short sword?” Helga looked back over her youngest sibling’s shoulder to inspect the armament she’d shaped. “Explain.”
Why did all her sisters treat her as if she were still in the midst of her training? Even her sole brother, Maximilian, criticized her, despite her natural superiority as a woman. Gerwalta had claimed her fire six months ago, under the light of the Snow Moon. She was a righteous hood now, blessed with the ability to wield silver abd a recognized wolfsretter of the clan. Even if Helga was ten years her senior and heir apparent, she was not Matron yet.
Tradition demanded Gerwalta show respect to her elders, even if said elders annoyed her with the constant reminder that she was the baby of the family.
“He comes alone, in the form of a man. He does not bellow and he does not brood.” Gerwalta had seen as much from the tower where she’d been tasked as the lookout when first he’d approached. “He exhibits no signs of open hostility. His gate is steady, his mannerisms gentle. Tentative, even. He will speak gently, drawing us near. If a weapon is called for, the conflict will be in close proximity. The short sword will allow me lethal force with maximum maneuverability.”
“Might you not raise tensions by bearing a weapon upon his arrival?”
Gerwalta pulled ahead of her sister, keeping the sword at her side. “Speak not to me of tensions when a werewolf is at our hearth.”
The Schloss Wolfretter was a proper castle, if a small one, it did not have the moat her cousin’s in the Rhineland did. Given that the west wall sat precariously perched on the edge of a cliff high above the forest valley, how could it?
The wolf must have sensed their approach as much as they recognized his presence halfway across the outer bailey, but he did not turn. What curious behavior, Gerwalta thought, to keep an eye to the woods and not to the enemy at your back.
“Wolf!” Helga pushed her little sister aside, forcing Gerwalta to flank her. “By what gull or gullibility have you come here uninvited?”
“I wish to present a petition to the Matron.”
Gerwalta clicked her tongue. “Only the konigswolf may petition my mother.”
His body shook with silent laughter as he pivoted. “Is that so?”
When his amused gaze met hers, Gerwalta realized that the supplicant did not need his fur to be a threat. Most wolves had dark features, but this one bucked that expectation. Blazing green eyes, and hair neither blonde nor brown, but a smattering of both. God had taken great effort in molding the clay of his anatomy. Tone, lithe, long-limbed. He used his lupine eyes as weapons, letting them fall upon her figure. And what sharp blades they were; his stare pierced Gerwalta deep within, making her weapon hand slack. The sword sunk to her side, as did her hostilities.
She’d been told some wolves could be devilishly handsome, but no one had said as handsome as the devil himself. His crooked grin melted her metal. An animal nature, raw and unrefined, that speaks to our own, the Matron had said, adding, but never forget, they are the animals, and we, the masters.
She’d expected ragged clothing, for the wolves of their territory were merely farmers and didn’t claim the wealth the wolfsretter did. His clothes, however, were quite fine. Not made from exotic fabrics as her formal attire was, but still, dignified.
And they fit him nicely. Ever so nicely.
“He is the konigswolf.” Helga turned biting words on her younger sibling, forcing Gerwalta back to the moment.
“Though only recently so. You can be forgiven for not knowing, Fraulein.” The king of the pack paid no mind to Helga, keeping his gaze fixed on Gerwalta. “You must be Fourth Daughter, the one who does not come to the packlands.”
Helga ignored him in turn, also talking to Gerwalta. “Notify the castellan to raise the gate and send word to the Matron that an official audience has been requested. And, for the sake of St. Peter, stop staring at him, silly girl!”
“There’s no call to demean the child, Frau Helga,” the wolf said, leaning into the iron bars of the castle gate. “Let her look all she likes."