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Had this girl never heard of a nickname? Did people seriously only call her Magnolia?
Goddamn, I’d dodged a bullet when I avoided being raised by the Southern McQueen clan.
Mags wasn’t a McQueen because of the way she was genuflecting like a motherfucker all over Lucas and me. No one in the upper ranks of the pack would be required to display such a show of obedience.
Magnolia bowed to each of us again—much more subtly this time—then swept her arm to a small path at our left. The winding trail was paved with red wood chips and led up a hill. We followed her lead, Dominick ahead of Lucas and me, while Morgan and Jackson brought up the rear.
Once we’d crested the hill, the answer to where the house was hidden became obvious. A massive Greek-revival plantation house was nestled amongst a group of huge, ancient oak trees whose trunks were green with thick, spongy-looking moss. The house itself rose two stories up, but judging by the height, the rooms inside must have all had twelve-to-fifteen-foot ceilings. Eight white columns lined the front of the house, with more around the sides supporting the roof for the wraparound verandah.
Brilliantly white and clean, the house looked equal parts modern elegance and old-fashioned charm. Above the verandah’s roof was a third floor that was smaller, as though someone had plopped a guesthouse on top, the proverbial cherry at the end of a sundae.
The chip wood path split into a fork, one end leading to the house, another winding behind it and off into the darkness. I didn’t know much about plantations, but I suspected there were more buildings, some equipment sheds and maybe a real guest suite. I was hopeful about the latter, because in spite of the beauty of the main house, I wanted to keep my distance from my uncle.
Magnolia trotted ahead and took the three steps up to the verandah in one leap. A man emerged from the front door, and she hit the deck with such speed I thought she’d been knocked over, but the drop was too graceful. Her forehead was practically against the wooden planks. If I had three guesses as to who the man was, I’d use one and two to suggest Santa or the Tooth Fairy, because they’d be totally unnecessary.
Lucas and I arrived at the steps. I wanted to stay on the ground, but Lucas had no interest in standing lower than the other man. He bounded up the stairs, waiting for Magnolia to move before he extended his hand.
Callum McQueen, Southern werewolf King, was as large in height as Lucas and broader across the chest. He wasn’t yet forty, but the hair around his temples had begun to go gray, showing in stark contrast to his dark brown curls. Curly hair ran in the McQueen family. Blond did not.
Thanks, Dad.
I was betting the women of the south appreciated Callum’s hard jaw and its thick, dark covering of stubble, which clung to his face not unlike moss clung to the oaks. His eyes were dark brown, and if they were the windows to the soul, his were shuttered. Callum’s expression was unreadable. He looked down at Lucas’s offered hand then turned his attention to me, where I remained on the ground level.
“Callum,” Lucas said, forcing his face into an approximation of a smile. “It’s a pleasure.”
If anyone else had addressed Callum so casually, it would have been seen as an incredible faux pas. But Lucas was a king too, and as much as neither of them liked it, they were equals.
After an achingly long pause, Callum took Lucas’s hand and shook it. “Welcome to my home, Lucas. It’s been awhile. Last time I saw 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 und
er 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.
