We'll be eating in a private dinning room in a hotel in Bangor because it's neutral territory for all clans. My stomach growls loudly as I think about lunch.
Donna says, “We'll have to get you some bread right away.” She smiles and glances at me quickly. “I was hungry all the time when I was pregnant. Do you have a snack to tide you over?”
“I'll be fine as long as we eat first.”
The paperwork Donna gave me to read last night was fascinating. Traditionally, marriage between members from different clans had not been allowed, and couples had to leave their clans to be together. But over time, enough did that an outsider clan formed in Canada. Unofficially, alphas have begun give permission if one of the partners is willing to change clans in order to keep members from leaving.
Switching clans is a big deal, because one gives up being controlled by a specific alpha to be controlled by another. This occurs when the alpha or the prima of the new clan bites the individual. Because it causes a short-term physical attraction between the two, things can get messy when you're dealing with werebear jealousy. It also has the potential to be dangerous in the wrong leader’s hands.
The process has been sorted out, the contracts have come back from the lawyers, and it's time to make intermarriage rights official and part of clan law. The prima are determining the logistics of presenting it to the werebear as a unified front.
I have a sneaking suspicion Donna wants to make Brady and me the poster couple for the announcement. But we're hesitant about sharing such information with Patricia and decided to keep it quiet. I sent Marion a message earlier, and she agreed it was a wise move.
Tires crunch over granite pebbles as we pull in before a pale-yellow historic mansion. The trim is ornate and a bit overdone for my taste, but when we enter, I decide it's charming. Drapes of heavy velvet adorn large windows, and the staircase looks like something out of the movie Gone with the Wind.
We're led to a room that has a table set for lunch and plush Victorian couches placed before a fireplace. I hope that's where we'll discuss business, because the sofas look comfortable.
Donna sends the hostess off to find bread as Marion walks in. Above a smart-looking suit of powder blue, her eyes are brilliant, and I wonder why I never wear that color, because it would do the same for me.
Donna reaches for Marion's hands, and they air kiss. She says, “Wonderful to see you again, and let me say, I'm pleased we're going to be sharing family.”
Marion replies, “Me too. While neither of us is old enough to be a grandmother, I think we'll be good ones.”
The two women chuckle, and I give air kisses to Marion. All the prima are doing it these days.
Ice rattles in a water pitcher, and when I turn to the waitress, hoping for my bread, a tall, slender woman walks in. Thin is so not in for werebear, and I'm instantly curious about Patricia Veilleux, especially when I notice Donna's smile become plastic. Growling sounds in my head as I tune in to her.
Patricia stares at me with brown eyes that look almost black enough to match her hair. She ignores Donna and Marion and says in a voice that could freeze the sun, “The new prima, and pregnant too. You must be so pleased, Donna.”
My bear prickles under my skin, and I exude confidence when I hold out my hand. “Patricia Veilleux, it's nice to meet you.”
Her long fingers are bony and surprisingly cool for a werebear when she shakes my hand with a firm grip. Probably because she's too skinny to stay warm. But she offers me a smile, and I wonder if I surprised her by not cowering. She's got nothing on hostile drunk men trying to get me to tattoo their dicks.
Donna speaks in my head. “Brady called the right woman. You are a warrior.”
Marion doesn't say anything, but I notice a hint of a smile, and my heart warms a bit thinking she might be proud of me, too.
The waitress leaves without a word, and I notice a basket on the table. I say, “Excuse me, ladies, but if I don't eat something right now, I'll turn into a bear.”
Even Patricia smiles at my joke, and we all sit at the table. Donna has arranged a set luncheon, and I peruse the paper that outlines what we'll have. I think I should be well fed with soup, salad, quiche, and dessert.
Lobster bisque arrives moments after we sit, and I spoon in a mouthful. The creaminess makes me want to moan, but I remain polite.
Patricia asks, “So tell me, Carly, where have they been hiding you all these years?”
“California.” I think Donna should be the one to explain how I managed to get here. I take another spoonful of soup so she can employ her diplomacy.
Donna says, “I couldn't let the Le Roux clan die off, so I took action. We searched for women that had werebear ancestry and encouraged them to come live here.”