Keeping Secret (Secret McQueen) - By Sierra Dean Page 0,37

you, you were just a pup.”

It wasn’t an outright insult, but I caught on to what Callum was doing. He was trying to remind Lucas who the older, wiser king was of the two of them. Well, older was right at least.

“We were all younger men, once,” Lucas replied politely.

Well played.

“Yes. And now you’re marrying my niece.” Once again the Southern king’s attention pivoted to me, and this time it lingered. “My long-departed niece.”

“Hello…Your Majesty.” I grimaced after the words came out. Even to me they sounded petulant and forced.

Callum pretended not to notice and offered me a smile and his hand. I climbed the steps hesitantly, expecting to fall into a booby trap any moment. I reached the top unscathed and placed my hand in his. His handshake was firm but not crushing. He didn’t need to force his strength on to people. His power was obvious without being showy. He was confident he would be respected in his domain.

“So this is our little Secret.” He took my other hand and held my arms out from my side, like a dressmaker who was checking for a good fit. “My goodness, all grown up.”

“Grandmere made sure I got my vitamins.”

“Grandmere.” He cocked his head to the side. “Hmm. Indeed. How is my mother?”

That was a rich question. She’d run away from him because she believed under his teenage leadership my life would be at risk. Now I was standing here in his clutches—literally—and he was asking after her health.

“She’s well.” I said nothing else.

“Good.” He nodded once. And again. “Good.” He dropped my arms. Neither of us commented on my ensemble, for which I was grateful. “Well, let’s not spend the whole night on the porch. The rest of the pack is at the bar. Magnolia will take you there, and I will meet you later.”

The bar? We drove two hours, and now he wanted us to leave again to make our introductions to a bunch of drunk wolves? Could this get more ridiculous?

“Come on,” Magnolia said, walking around the side of the verandah.

“Uh, don’t we need our cars?” I asked.

“Why? The bar is out back.”

Chapter Eighteen

The Southern wolf pack knew how to bring a party to their front door.

We followed a chip path through another stand of oaks in total darkness. After about five minutes of silence, I was about to ask what kind of horror movie Magnolia was taking us into, when a pair of tiki torches appeared ahead. The path opened into a huge clearing.

To our left was a stone building, shaped like a turret, which looked too small to be a house. To our right was a large wood-plank building with a rickety porch wrapping around it and newly replaced wooden steps that stood in bright blonde contrast to the stain of the rest of the building. Above the entrance was a neon orange sign blinking the words The Den.

More neon decorated the windows on either side of the door and also served to obscure my view through the glass.

“You guys have a bar?” I couldn’t wrap my head around the building in front of us.

More buildings were set off in the distance, most dark, one or two with dim lights shining from their windows. It seemed as if Callum, or more likely my Grandfather Elmore, had renovated the old slave quarters into residences for the pack. With Callum’s home being so far from a major metropolitan area, it must have been easier to have the pack stay close rather than wait to have them come to him.

“It’s pretty new. We found the bar in St. Francisville was, um…” Magnolia bit back a grin and tried to look somber, “…unable to meet our needs.”

Translation, drunk wolves kept starting shit and were putting a beating on the poor townie men.

“So, Callum thought it was best to keep you guys under a more watchful eye?”

Magnolia nodded. “Some of the pack have short fuses. Keeping them within range of their king helps to hold their tempers in line. This way they can still have their fun and no one gets hurt.”

“Can we have a bar?” I asked Lucas.

“What would Genevieve think?”

The queen of the were-ocelots, Genevieve Renard, had a bar in New York that was a popular shapeshifter hot spot. The Chameleon Lounge was a lot fancier than The Den, considering it also housed a 5-star quality restaurant. But the idea of our own little Manhattan pub was sort of appealing.

“Shall we go in?” Magnolia asked, apparently uneasy about