Claws: A Rogue Werewolf story

Title: Claws: A Rogue Werewolf story Source: Inkitt (https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1399706) Author: Daphne Anders Category: Inkitt · Romantica & Steamy Synopsis/Opening: Usually updated every 3-4 days! This story has romantic scenes and is 18+. This story is not void of grammatical or spelling errors and is still being edited. © 2025 Daphne Anders “All Rights Reserved” “This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.” 18+ w ======================================================================

### Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Usually updated every 3-4 days!

This story has romantic scenes and is 18+.

This story is not void of grammatical or spelling errors and is still being edited.

© 2025 Daphne Anders “All Rights Reserved”

“This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.”

18+ with 🌶️ scenes. I’m a rogue, but not just a rogue, an exotic dancer aka a stripper and I dance at a werewolf frequented exotic dance club called “Claws”. The humans think it means “long nails” or that we’re “feisty” because we’re strippers of course, major eye roll. The wolves know what it means. We’re already degraded for being rogues, so we might as well be strippers, too. The shift was going normally until he walked in…. The smell. The connection. The…. Bond. Mate. I did the best I could do in life, between wolf foster homes and failed adoptions, I learned to live with life's disappointments but…. I didn’t expect to find my fated mate.

Complete Chapters 31 Rating 4.8 ( 102 reviews ) Age Rating 18+ {"language":"en","storyId":1399706,"genres":[{"name":"Fantasy","path":"/genres/fantasy"},{"name":"Romance","path":"/genres/romance"}],"authorName":"Daphne Anders","authorPath":"/daphneanders","status":"complete","lastUpdatedAt":1786582936,"chaptersCount":31,"rating":4.803921568627451,"reviewsCount":102,"ageRating":"18+"} Chapter 1: THIS STORY IS FREE AND COMPLETED! IT WILL BE MOVING TO GALATEA SOON!

I was a child again seated on a velvet red upholstered chair in a room with oak walls. The room was surrounded in red and gold velvet tapestries lining the tops of the windows and gold carved statues of wolves. My little fingers wandered across the face of the wolf statue, touching its golden snout, feeling the cold metal of the statue against my fingertips.

Sunlight casted a shadow over the room, exposing a desk piled high with paperwork, and wood shelves full of leather bound books.

I instantly turned to meet the gaze of the person who it belonged to. A tall man with tanned slightly wrinkled skin and bright ocean blue colored eyes. His lips creased when he looked at me, a smile threatening to break free, even though he was attempting to remain serious in the given moment.

“What did I say about touching our ancient artifacts?” He questioned.

I found myself sinking further in my seat. I knew the man was angry I was touching the statue, especially so carelessly. I should’ve been more careful with it, I know it’s sacred and can easily fall off the table and dent.

I nodded my head in understanding.

His voice softened as he neared me, the tension in his face slightly releasing. He pressed his large body into the seat across from me.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” he consoled me. He pressed a kiss onto the top of my head and I brightened with a smile.

Loud clamoring and frantic footsteps sounded from behind the doorway.

I turned to meet the man’s gaze and his eyes widened as he froze in place as if he was silently being alerted of something. His gaze remained transfixed on the bookshelf ahead, as if he was staring into space even though nothing was in front of him.

He turned on his feet quickly, rushing towards the mahogany desk drawers. He rummaged through them at an all time high pace.

He quickly removed his hand from the desk drawers. He clutched a bag in his hand tightly before he rushed back towards me. The brown sack was opened quickly, he swiped his fingertips through the bag’s contents before sprinkling the unknown substance along the top of my hair then over the rest of my clothing before wrapping the satchel in my hands and pressing my hand within his.

“Take this,” he said in a hurry, pushing me to my feet then scrambling us towards the door.

He lifted his nose to the air to scent the foreign smell. I smelled it, too.

He lifted me into his arms and rushed us over to the bookshelf. “It’s okay, honey,” he whispered in a low voice.

I knew it wouldn’t be, but for some reason I believed him.

One click of the bookshelf and a secret passageway entrance opened and he placed me onto my feet.

“I love you, sweetheart. Stay quiet. Stay hidden. Daddy loves you, Becca.”

“But daddy,” I whispered, my voice cracking and tears forming along my eyes.

I knew whatever was happening would ruin my life. I knew that my father would be in trouble. I knew by the echoed screams that I wouldn’t see him again.

“Please listen to daddy, Becca,” he whispered before the door closed and darkness surrounded me.

The last thing I saw was the look of forlorn sadness in his eyes— and beneath the sadness also lived fear.

I was scared too for what lay ahead, but I remembered his words—they replayed in my head as I sat silently in the darkness, clutching a small sack in my hand tightly. I love you sweetheart. Stay quiet. Stay hidden. Daddy loves you, Becca.

I felt fear gripping me, I heard the blood curdling screams, I smelled fire burning around me.

It’s like that more nights than not—about two nights out of the week I suffer from the same constant dream—or more like a nightmare in this case.

I’m five years old in an elegant room surrounded by a man who calls himself my father. Everything is pleasant until the man goes silent and blankly stares ahead at nothing, almost as if he’s speaking to voices inside his head, and he learns of trouble ahead. Then he sprinkles dust, let’s call it fairy dust since that’s how unrealistic it sounds and tells me to hide and stay quiet. He tells me that he loves me and that everything will be alright. I’m surrounded by darkness as I sit quietly in a hidden compartment of a room while screams surround me. I can tell that a battle is taking place, I can smell fire burning, I can hear the torment of people suffering. And then I wake up.

The images fade from my mind and I’m left second guessing the dream and wondering if it’s an actual reality.

I mean—it feels so…so real. It feels as if it’s a part of my past and a memory I’ve chosen to forget.

The memory feels familiar. The man in the memory feels oddly familiar, too.

I even see his blue eyes in mine as I stare back at myself in the mirror.

I begin to wonder if it’s not just a nightmare but an actual memory?

I’ve tortured myself with the thought too often and too frequently at that—there’s no telling if it’s an actual memory or if it’s just a recurring nightmare from my unknown past probably filled with a load of trauma.

Then my eyes flutter open and I’m left with just memories of a dream and with questions that I’ll never be able to truly find answers for.

I sound crazy, don’t I? I probably sound certifiable.

It’s actually kind of funny. I’ve grown to realize that this is how I probably imagined my life to be—even if it does end up turning into a nightmare.

I wanted to imagine that I have a father who cares about me enough to protect me from evil and hide me away from anyone who may hurt me. I wanted to imagine that I lived in a palace surrounded by riches and luxuries. I wanted to imagine that before my life turned out so shitty, it was good–really really good.

But I know it’s just an illusion.

I’d give anything not to be in the position that I am now.

I’m twenty years old and an orphan. But I guess when you’re past adulthood you’re not really considered an orphan anymore, right? So I guess I’m just twenty years old and used to be an orphan.

I heaved out a breath as I tossed over to the side and noticed the sun brightly streaming through the cracks of the curtains I had left open last night.

I basically came home and passed out right after work. My feet were killing me, and so was my head, and so was my stomach. I hadn’t even thought of eating last night after work, and now I was beyond starving. My stomach loudly growling had done as much as tell me so.

There’s not much to show for my life.

I forgot to mention a lot—and I did it purposefully because frankly, I’m ashamed but I guess shame is just a part of living and being well—sort of human.

I’m twenty years old and an orphaned werewolf.

But there’s more to my story than just that.

I’m twenty years old, a werewolf, who was previously an orphan who now happens to be a stripper.

And I left out my most distinguishing quality: I’m a rogue.

Rogue werewolves are well—-it’s not good to be a rogue werewolf let me start off by saying that.

Rogue werewolves are looked down upon. They’re lower than low in the werewolf realm.

Werewolves are creatures that roam in packs, there is a hierarchy to our species. A hierarchy obviously that I’m a part of but at the lowest level.

Since I was orphaned when I was a child at five years old, I was forced into a werewolf orphanage. Some of the orphans got lucky, they became household staff at pack homes but then there’s ones like me, who aren’t selected for even the lowest of roles and just remain straight rogues.

I guess I was sort of glad I didn’t end up as some Alpha’s maid or better yet used for breeding or just fucking.

Being a rogue, especially being a rogue while an adult had its benefits, no one could adopt you and you had freedom to make your own decisions in life.

And that decision happened to be choosing a job to support myself.

Rogues didn’t have many options in the werewolf realm, it was slim pickings. So when I turned seventeen and was officially kicked out of the orphanage, I was presented with a few job choices. 1. Jobs in the human realm—boring but at least no one would judge me there. And 2. Jobs in the werewolf realm i.e. one as a stripper.

I thought about giving up werewolf life for good and just getting a human job then attending a human college and eventually marrying a boring old human man. I thought about it—I really did.

It honestly would’ve been the safest option, the most reasonable one. But there was something about me— -something inside me , including my wolf that convinced me not to.

In reality, I wasn’t ready to give the werewolf life up yet and leave behind the life I’ve known since birth. I was used to werewolves, even if they treated me like I was a second class citizen, it was the life I was born into after all.

And there was also a part of me that wondered if my birth parents were out there somewhere—maybe somewhere far—maybe looking for me even?

I knew that was a fat chance. I figured they gave me up for a reason.

Werewolves were protective creatures especially werewolf mothers, my mother had to have willingly given me up and abandoned me otherwise she’d be searching for me. Unless she died? Fat chance at that, too. The most reasonable answer was that they didn’t want me as their child.

I’ve learned to accept that possibility over the last five years. It’s easier to accept that you were abandoned rather than deny it.

I remember up until I was twelve years old I used to hound the orphanage staff for answers, questions, and do massive amounts of research hoping I’d find my parents even though I couldn’t even remember their faces, their bone structure, their eyes, or even what their names were.

But no one had answers. It was like I was a ghost and so was my family.

Melissa, the head of the orphanage even told me that when I first arrived at the orphanage that I wasn’t sure of my name. Eventually after a few weeks I told her that my name was Becca.

I pressed myself into a seated position on my bed and sighed heavily.

Last night I worked the early shift at the club, but tonight I was marked for closing.

After 3 am, especially at ‘Claws’, where all the strippers were she-wolves, and almost all of the clientele were werewolves, even Alpha’s at times, things always got messy.

3:00 am was the witching hour— or in this case—the werewolf hour.

All that angst, ego, and testosterone in one room surrounded by barely clothed women was always a shit show waiting to happen.

Here’s to another day as a stripper.

Hey, at least it pays the bills.

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### Chapter 2: Chapter 2

After my pilates class I grabbed a coffee and scarfed down an everything bagel with extra cream cheese—one thing about me is I need globs of cream cheese on a bagel especially before work. I’d pick through a few snacks before my shift usually shifted then be sanctioned to be on my feet in a pair of heels and half naked for the next few hours. I learned to eat a bigger meal at the start of my day rather than right before it began.

After a excruciatingly long hot shower I blow dried my hair, curled it, applied an amount of makeup that any normal woman would most certainly not need. Considering I was literally a stripper, I unfortunately did need that amount of makeup. After applying mascara, black eyeliner, and pink colored lipstick, I was ready to go.

Now to pick me out my outfit for tonight.

I mean—should I even call it an outfit at this point? It’s lingerie. Let’s call it what it actually is. Lingerie.

I decided on a lacy bright red number—underwear that can only be classified as a thong and a lacy push up bra. I chose a pair of red heels to go along with it, stiletto strappy red pumps.

I threw on my usual ‘going to work’ ensemble: a pair of black leggings, an oversized gray shirt, a pair of comfy sneakers and my black teddy jacket. I was all bundled up and ready to go before I’d literally have to strip myself more than halfway naked and prance around like a bimbo for hours.

Let me make something clear, I don’t think that strippers are bimbos.

In fact, they’re far from it. Most strippers are intelligent women who happen to also be hustlers. They know they can make money doing the job, so they do it.

In this case, werewolf strippers are not much different from regular strippers except for the fact our options are limited, but we’re definitely not bimbo’s, and we definitely make good money doing the job.

But every job has its disadvantages such as asshole men. And let me tell you— werewolves —especially Alphas are the biggest assholes ever, they’re way worse than your average drunk douchebag is.

I heaved in a breath as I took one final look into the mirror. I looked nice—hot even with clothing on. I stuffed my heels into my oversized purse along with some snacks and a huge bottle of water before I hustled towards my car.

Luckily, Claws was only a 10 minute drive from my house, so within minutes I pulled into the empty parking lot and shifted my car into park.

Stacey, one of my best work friends, sat parked next to me and offered me a happy wave.

One of the main reasons I was able to make it through the work days, especially during days I had to close was because of Stacey.

Stacey is great, she’s one of the non catty women here and we hit it off immediately when I first started working here years ago. Stacey, like me, is a rogue she-wolf herself, but her story is a little different than mine.

Stacey had a mate, not a fated mate, but one she was promised to from her pack. I know, I know you’re already getting the vibe that this won’t end up as a fairytale ending. To sum it up, it was not a fairytale ending at all.

Stacey unfortunately caught her mate cheating on her, and responding like a normal woman would, werewolf or not—-she sort of lashed out. Let’s just say she almost killed the girl.

Everything would’ve been okay if that didn’t end up being her mate’s actual fated mate.

So you can guess what happened. Stacey was banned from her pack because of fated mate laws.

The packs are really really strict about crimes against fated mates and take this matter very seriously because fated mates can be rare.

Isn’t it messed up how if you find your mate cheating on you—even if it is with a fated mate that you’re the one who will have to pay the consequences? Not the cheater?

Don’t even get me started—that’s another reason why I’m glad I haven’t found my fated mate nor belong to a pack and have to follow their archaic and unreasonable rules.

“Hey Stace,” I smiled, rifling through the back seat of my car and grabbing for my purse.

“Hi Bec. Are you ready for tonight?” she asked, enthusiastically. Her red curly hair framed her heart shaped face.

Stacey was popular with a lot of the guys. Not only was she drop dead gorgeous but she had green eyes—so beautiful and so rare. Beyond that she had a killer body with curves to boot. And she was fiery, sassy, and fun. She made every guy feel like he was special and the only one in the room. Her attention meant something and they ate it all up.

I rolled my eyes. “Waiting for it to be over, especially since I’m closing tonight.”

“At least we’ll have each other,” she smiled, forcing me to smile back.

“Thank goddess,” I laced my arm through hers as we continued walking to the strip club’s entrance.

The bouncer, Tony, a big burly guy, who gave most Alpha’s a run for their money greeted us with a grunt and a wave.

“Tony,” I greeted and continued to yank Stacey into the dimly lit club and towards the dressing room.

I heaved out a breath as I forced the door open and almost collapsed onto one of the pink velvet chairs.

A few of the other girls were getting dressed and applying makeup in front of the mirrors and started whispering as we sat down .

Jessica and Victoria. Let me tell you about girls named Jessica and Victoria—in this case I happen to think most of them are not girls girls. In other words, they’re mean girls. But it wasn’t just the names that gave them a bad rep, it was the way that they purposefully tried to embarrass you or ruin your night or steal your clientele.

For example, why do you think I wear my lingerie underneath my clothing and put on my makeup before? It’s because of Jessica and Victoria. One time they ‘accidentally’ broke a strap on my lingerie and my lipstick and foundation just ‘happened’ to disappear.

I rest my case, I know it was them. I heard them whispering about it.

Anyway—we do what we can. And I personally don’t want to deal with the drama, my job is already draining enough. Hours of my feet, faking smiles, grinding on guys’ laps, and pretending that you’re interested in them is already a task enough.

Stacey plopped down into the pink velvet chair next to me and loudly whispered. “Do you think they wake up wanting to be bitches?”

Jessica and Victoria sent scornful gazes our way before stomping out in their six inch stiletto heels that they could barely walk in.

“Thank god, I was wondering when they’d leave,” I laughed as I tossed my shirt over my head and into my purse. Then I stripped myself of my leggings and kicked off my comfortable shoes.

I stared down at the red stilettos on the floor, they were daunting. I mean every time I put myself out there like this it was daunting. It’s not like I’m shy–I’m comfortable in my own body but there’s just something about strutting around with dozens of guys eyes on you that makes you feel a tad bit uncomfortable. I guess no woman really got used to it. I felt confident but sometimes I also felt insecure. I fixed the straps of my heels around my ankles, fluffed my curly blonde hair in front of my body then let out a breath of resolve.

I guess Stacey must’ve noticed my preoccupation because she neared me and placed a hand on my shoulder in comfort.

I stared back at both our reflections in the mirror, considering her words. “We both look hot,” I corrected.

Stace offered me her usual bright white smile.

“Maybe one day we won’t have to work here. Maybe one day we’ll meet our fated mates.” Stacey was daydreaming again.

She spoke about meeting her fated mate almost everyday, it’s something she always talked about. She believed in true love. She believed in second chances. But for some reason, I was skeptical of both.

A line of ten other women strolled in, plopping themselves down in the velvet seating chairs and causing Stacey and I to move back a few inches towards the locker area to give them room.

“Maybe,” I offered her a strained smile. “Let’s go. They just turned on the music, I’m sure there’s a line of guys waiting outside. We’ll see what our pick of the litter is like tonight,” I smirked, lacing my fingers along with hers and tugging her towards the doorway.

Each of us were assigned a table and unfortunately I ended up with a table full of arrogant douches. And they had nothing to be arrogant about at all. They weren’t Alpha or even Beta wolves….they were just regular old ‘packies’.

The ringleader of them all was an average looking guy, mid twenties, dark blonde hair, beard, and mud colored eyes. His personality was just as dull as his looks. I tried to put on my best overly zealous attitude with a flirty smile and high pitched tone as I sauntered over with my notepad. Tonight I was on serving duty as well as Stacey, we also would add in some lap dances here and there.

To be honest, I was sort of glad I wasn’t on stage tonight. The bright lights kind of gave me a headache especially when I spun around in circles and upside down on that pole.

The ringleader leaned in, pressing his elbow into the top of the bar table purposefully trying to flirt with me. Alcohol was heavy on his breath, a strong stench of whiskey caused my stomach to turn inside out.

“Hey sweetheart,” he cooed like I was some type of bird. “Four whiskeys, then after you bring those back I want to see you shake your ass.”

Goddess—why did I have to deal with this asshole right into the start of my shift? Why couldn’t I get the nerdy dorky werewolves who barely got laid?

Stay strong, Bec. Be calm, Bec. Be sweet, Bec. I reminded myself.

“Be right back,” I said cheerfully as I turned on my heels and placed my back towards them.

“God, would you look at that ass,” I heard him say.

I felt myself tensing but kept moving forward towards the bar area.

Luckily, Stacey was standing at the corner of the bar waiting for her table’s drinks and sensed my irritation.

“You got a table of jerks right off the bat?” she asked.

“Hopefully Tony has to kick them out soon,” I stated.

“Fingers crossed,” Stacey replied, grabbing her order of drinks and scurrying back over to her table.

But as soon as I placed my table drinks on my serving platter, the scent hit me like a ton of bricks.

Cedarwood. Pine. The forest after it rains.

My god, it was intoxicating. I felt myself becoming drowsy just from inhaling it.

But my knees began to shake and I felt weak, as if I couldn’t hold myself up.

I breathed in again and took in the aroma again. My insides were jumbled into knots. My heart was pounding in my chest. My wolf was howling inside me.

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Readers can read all books for free, without any ads and give the authors feedback.

Books that perform well based on their reader engagement are published on our Galatea app.

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