Redemption (Soldiers of Fortune #5)

Chapter One

Redemption

AJA FOXX

~ Rooster ~

I set the last container of fried chicken on the picnic table and stepped back to survey my offering. The food had become a daily ritual—my silent communication with the homeless kid who'd been lurking around our property for months.

Montana winters could be brutal, and this one was already making its intentions known with a bitter chill that seeped through my leather jacket. The kid would need the calories, especially if they were planning to stick around.

Three water bottles joined the spread, along with the plastic fork that I knew would be ignored. I'd tried different utensils—spoons, even chopsticks once as an experiment—but the kid always ate with their hands. Like an animal. Like my nickname for them: feral kitten.

"Dinner's ready," I said to the empty yard, my breath forming small clouds in the cold air. "Extra fried chicken tonight. Recipe's new. Let me know if you like it."

I snorted at myself. As if the kid would ever leave feedback. In the two months since I'd first noticed signs of someone scavenging from our dumpsters, we'd never exchanged a single word. Just food left on the table and empty containers stacked neatly afterward.

A strange dance between strangers.

The back door of the clubhouse creaked as I pulled it open and stepped inside, the warmth of the kitchen enveloping me immediately.

My domain. Where I ruled with a wooden spoon and a bad attitude, as Butch liked to say.

The guys gave me shit about being the club cook, but they shut their mouths quick enough when their plates were empty.

I moved to the window, positioning myself where I could see the table without being obvious.

The waiting was always the hardest part.

Sometimes the kid wouldn't appear until well after dark, when they thought everyone was asleep or occupied elsewhere.

Other times, like today, desperation or hunger drove them to take risks.

A shadow detached itself from the side of Gearhead's workshop. My feral kitten, right on schedule. The kid moved like water—fluid, silent, always alert. They approached the table in a half-crouch, golden eyes scanning for threats before small hands darted out to grab the container of chicken.

I watched as they devoured the food, tearing into the meat with desperate efficiency. No fork, as expected. Just fingers and teeth and hunger.

The kid couldn't be more than twenty, though it was hard to tell with the layers of clothing and constant hood shadowing their face. Small-framed, definitely undernourished. And something else that had been bothering me lately—no scent.

Every shifter had a distinctive scent, unique as a fingerprint. Even humans had their smells, though less pronounced to our enhanced senses. But this kid? Nothing. Like trying to smell a ghost.

I'd begun to wonder if they might be an omega shifter. Rare as hen's teeth, but it would explain the lack of scent. Omegas were treasured in shifter society for their unique abilities, though they couldn't shift themselves.

If my feral kitten was an omega, that raised more questions than answers. What were they doing alone? Where was their pack? And why were they hiding?

The temperature had dropped another five degrees since I'd stepped outside, the wind picking up strength as it moaned around the corners of the clubhouse.

Winter in Montana didn't mess around. My mind flashed forward to snow piling in drifts, temperatures plummeting below zero, the kind of cold that could kill a homeless kid overnight.

Decision made, I turned to the pantry and started filling a paper bag. More chicken. Protein bars. Apples. A loaf of bread. Peanut butter. Foods that would keep and didn't need preparation. On impulse, I added a small jar of honey—everyone needed something sweet now and then.

I hesitated, then grabbed one of my own hoodies from the hook by the back door. It would be big on the kid, but that was the point. Extra layers meant extra warmth.

The bag was heavier than I'd intended, but I didn't remove anything. With a deep breath, I pushed the door open again, trying to move slowly, telegraphing my movements.

Too late. The kid froze at the sound, a piece of chicken halfway to their mouth. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

I got my first real look at those eyes. Golden. Not brown or hazel, but actually golden, with an almost luminous quality that reflected the security light overhead. Lynx eyes. I'd bet my Harley on it.

The hood of their dark blue sweatshirt framed a thin face smudged with dirt. Young. Male, I was pretty sure, though it was hard to tell under all those layers. His entire body had gone rigid, poised between fight and flight, calculating odds and exits.

I held up the paper bag like a peace offering, then slowly—very slowly—set it down on the edge of the porch.

"Take this with you," I said, keeping my voice low and even. "If you run out, come back for more."

I stepped back into the kitchen, closing the door behind me but immediately moving to the window.

I half-expected the kid to be gone, spooked by the encounter, but he remained frozen for several seconds longer.

Then, like a switch had been flipped, he sprang into action, shoving the remaining chicken into his mouth and gathering the containers.

To my surprise, he stacked them neatly on the table—his usual cleanup routine despite the interruption—before approaching the porch with the same liquid caution.

He snatched the bag, clutching it to his chest like precious cargo, and then he was gone, melting into the shadows between buildings so quickly I almost doubted he'd been there at all.

Only the empty space where the bag had been and the neatly stacked containers proved I hadn't imagined the whole thing.

I sighed, my breath fogging the window glass. "You're welcome, kid," I muttered, though there was no one to hear.

Tomorrow I'd make extra stew. Something hot that would stick to his ribs. And maybe next time, he wouldn't run.

I wiped down the counter with smooth, practiced motions, my mind still on the golden-eyed kid who'd vanished into the shadows. The kitchen gleamed around me—stainless steel surfaces reflecting the overhead lights, everything in its place.

I'd learned early in my cooking career that a clean kitchen was non-negotiable, especially when feeding a bunch of rowdy bikers who'd eat just about anything. The guys joked that you could perform surgery in my kitchen.

They weren't wrong.

With the lunch hour approaching, I pulled out ingredients for the club's favorite sandwiches. Thick-cut bread, three types of meat, cheese that didn't come pre-sliced in plastic. The Soldiers of Fortune MC might be rough around the edges, but they ate well. I made sure of that.

The kitchen was my zone, the one place in the clubhouse where I felt completely at home. Well, that and astride my Harley on the open road, wind whipping past, nothing ahead but possibilities. But that was different—a freedom that existed in motion. The kitchen was my anchor, my territory.

I moved with practiced efficiency, muscle memory taking over as I sliced meats and cheeses, toasted bread, and prepared condiments. My hands knew what to do without conscious direction, leaving my mind free to wander.

Today, it kept circling back to that kid, those strange golden eyes. A lynx shifter, I was almost certain, though I'd never encountered one personally. They were uncommon in these parts.

My tablet chimed with a reminder about inventory.

If I was going to shop tomorrow, I needed to know what we were low on.

The pantry was a walk-in affair at the back of the kitchen, meticulously organized with shelves of ingredients and supplies.

I grabbed my tablet and headed in, ready to count cans and measure flour levels.

"Mr. Rooster? You here?"

Bug's voice pulled me back to the present. Only he could get away with calling me that. Anyone else would get a wooden spoon to the back of the head or worse.

I stepped out of the pantry to find him standing in the doorway, his head tilted at that adorable angle that made him look like a curious puppy. Not that I'd ever admit noticing such a thing.

"What's up, kid?" I asked, setting my tablet on the counter.

Bug had been with us for nearly a year now, ever since Bear had found him—or rather, Bug had found Bear wounded and helped him.

The kid was still skittish sometimes, his brain damaged from the bullet that had nearly killed him years ago.

His speech came out fragmented, but there was nothing wrong with his intelligence.

He shuffled from foot to foot, a sure sign he wanted something but wasn't sure how to ask. His oversized sweater hung off his thin frame, sleeves rolled up several times to free his hands. Despite regular meals, he still looked underfed.

"You make cupcakes?" he finally blurted, eyes darting around the kitchen before landing back on me. "Bear say... say you make good ones. With frosting?"

I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. For all his street toughness and survival skills, Bug sometimes wanted the simplest things—things any kid should have had growing up.

"I could," I replied, leaning against the counter. "Any particular kind you're hoping for?"

Bug's eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn't expected to get this far. "Chocolate? With... with the swirly stuff?" He made a gesture with his hand for frosting.

"Buttercream frosting," I supplied. "Sure, I can do that. Tell you what—I'm making a grocery run tomorrow. Help me shop and I'll pick up what we need for cupcakes. That work for you?"

The transformation on Bug's face was immediate—pure joy breaking through his usual wariness. It was moments like these that reminded us all that despite everything he'd been through, there was still a young man underneath who just wanted normal things.