Keeping Secret (Secret McQueen) - By Sierra Dean Page 0,38

the new, hungry look on my face. “I’d like to introduce you to the pack before His Majesty joins us.”

“Yes please, Magnolia. Lead the way.” Lucas nodded his head in her direction without bowing it. He couldn’t show weakness to her or be seen to bow before a lesser wolf.

Werewolf politics and customs took a lot of adjustment to get used to. Magnolia wasn’t subservient because she was a woman. Women in packs often held prominent power positions, like Morgan or myself. And just as often men would fall into positions lower than Magnolia’s in the pecking order. Where you stood depended on the power you projected. And your power was determined at birth. There was no way around it. With wolves you would never be able to rise above the position you were born to hold.

I wondered if that was one of the reasons Kellen had decided not to be Awakened. She was spunky and independent, but she wasn’t powerful. As a human she had control of her future. As a wolf she would have been subservient forever, living in the shadow of her brother the king.

Once we were inside the bar, I became aware of just how quiet it had been outdoors. Within the walls of The Den it sounded like three dozen people were talking all at once. Probably because there were. I was amazed by the number of bodies wedged into the room and how hot it made the air. The smell of wolf was overwhelming.

The conversations—all forty thousand of them, from the sound of it—came to an abrupt stop when we followed Magnolia into the room. My first instinct was to duck behind Lucas, wanting to shrink away from the scrutiny of so many lupine stares. I could handle a few werewolves, but this many in one place put the odds well out of my favor. I was good, but I wasn’t one-against-thirty-six good.

“Brothers and sisters,” Magnolia greeted, bowing her head to a few of the obviously higher-ranked pack members. “I would like to present His Majesty, Lucas Rain, King of the Eastern packs, and his consort, Secret McQueen, Princess of our own Southern pack.”

Every time Magnolia said princess I wanted to cringe. I’d barely wrapped my head around the idea of being werewolf royalty in the past year, and here she was expecting these strangers to treat me like I was special. Maybe I was, but I didn’t want a bunch of roughneck-looking shifters bowing in front of me as Mags had earlier. Thanks, but no thanks.

The wolves sat stock-still for a few moments, casting uncertain glances between themselves until a woman in her mid-forties with a silvering ashy bob came and stood before Lucas and me. She bowed in a way she had not the first time we’d met, but her eyes betrayed her real feelings.

“Hello again, Amelia,” I said, giving her a hard stare.

Maybe I had something against women who acted as the third power seat in the werewolf hierarchy. Amelia was Callum’s version of what Morgan was to Lucas. A strong wolf who probably wasn’t quite strong enough or trustworthy enough to make the final jump to the lieutenant position.

Amelia smiled at me in a cold, predatory way that would make Morgan proud if she had seen it. “Your Royal Highness,” she greeted. I didn’t like her tone. Or her face. Or her dress, for that matter.

Perhaps I was being a touch judgmental.

“Always a pleasure.” The words came out sweet, but in my head I was shouting bitch, bitch, bitch. Lucas couldn’t read my mind, but he knew me well enough he didn’t need to. He grimaced and cleared his throat to bring Amelia’s attention back his way.

“Amelia, nice to see you again. I trust time has treated you well.”

“It has, Your Majesty, thank you.” She bowed again, but not as low as Magnolia had.

For the next fifteen minutes we were at the head of a lengthy queue of wolves who were required to let their beers grow warm while they bowed in a variety of heights and told us how thrilled they were to have us in their territory and how lovely it was to have me home again.

Like this had ever been my home.

The last wolf in line was a squinty, leering sort who I would give a wide berth to in a back alley or at a regular bar. Not that I was physically intimidated by him. Rather, something in his manner set off my spidey sense. He