Chapter 8
EIGHT
B y the time he entered the boardroom seventeen minutes later, Artair had formulated counter-arguments for every potential objection. He’d also changed to the green tie Meredith had suggested, though he’d never admit it was on her recommendation.
The meeting proceeded much as expected. Quarterly reports. Strategic initiatives. Budget allocations. Victor Hargrove, the wolf shifter who’d secured a board position through a series of savvy investments, attempted to redirect the Riverfront project to the western quadrant—where, coincidentally, he owned several key properties.
“The western development presents fewer logistical challenges,” Hargrove argued, sliding a glossy proposal across the table. “And considerably higher potential returns for shareholders.”
“While disrupting three established shifter territories and violating zoning restrictions established by the Elder Council,” Artair countered, not bothering to open Hargrove’s proposal. “The eastern site has been allocated for commercial development since my grandfather’s time.”
“With all due respect to your grandfather, Maxen,” Hargrove pressed, leaning forward with the subtle aggression typical of his kind, “times change. Strategies should evolve accordingly.”
The bear within Artair stirred, irritated by the challenge to both his authority and his family legacy. A low rumble built in his chest—not quite a growl, but carrying the unmistakable warning that only other shifters could fully appreciate. Around the table, board members subtly adjusted their postures, some leaning away, others lowering their gazes.
Hargrove, to his credit, didn’t immediately back down, though the sudden pallor of his legal advisors suggested they recognized the danger signs their employer ignored.
“The eastern development continues as planned,” Artair stated, his voice deceptively calm while his eyes held Hargrove’s with the unblinking focus of a predator. “Unless there are substantive objections beyond personal preferences and real estate speculation?”
The silence stretched, heavy and charged. Finally, Hargrove broke eye contact, reaching for his water glass with a hand that betrayed the slightest tremor.
“No substantive objections,” he conceded, his tone deliberately casual. “Though I hope the board recognizes my dedication to maximizing our returns.”
“Duly noted,” Artair replied, already turning his attention to the next agenda item. “Now, regarding the security enhancements for our satellite properties...”
As the meeting progressed, Artair maintained perfect control—over the discussion, over the room, over the bear that increasingly pushed against his human restraint as the morning wore on. By the time he called for a lunch recess, tension radiated across his shoulders, a dull ache building at the base of his skull.
He retreated to his private dining room where floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Enchanted Falls. From this height, he could see the distant shimmer of the waterfall, the sprawling canopy of ancient forest beyond the town limits, and the bustling activity of the town square. Workers were setting up the preliminary structures for the Monthly Moonlight Market, the event still two days away but requiring extensive preparation.
His lunch arrived—rosemary-crusted salmon, artisan bread, and a selection of honey varietals from local apiaries. The simple meal represented more than sustenance; the ritual of drizzling dark amber honey over warm bread served as a form of meditation, a momentary indulgence of his bear’s primal cravings within the constraints of his human life.
The honey slid from the wooden dipper in a golden stream, its sweet perfume rising to greet him. His bear rumbled with satisfaction as he took the first bite, the flavor soothing something restless within him.
A soft knock interrupted his momentary peace. Before he could respond, the door swung open to reveal Jash Clancy, his childhood friend and current head of security technology for Maxen Enterprises.
“I’ve done it,” Jash announced without preamble, his lean frame vibrating with barely contained excitement. He adjusted his thick-framed glasses, which sat slightly askew on his nose as usual. “The shifter detection grid—I’ve fixed the Plumthorn problem.”