Chapter One
Artemis
The morning started like most mornings did—with Gumbo demanding breakfast and me pretending I wasn't going to give it to him.
"You already ate yesterday." I stood on the dock in my sleep shirt, bare feet curling against the sun-warmed wood, watching my nine-foot alligator float in the shallows like a very judgmental log. "Two whole chickens. That's excessive even for you."
Gumbo blinked one amber eye at me. Slowly. Deliberately. As if to say,And your point is?
"You're spoiled." I crouched down, reaching into the bucket I'd brought from the house. "You know that, right? Completely and utterly spoiled. Aunt Marguerite would be appalled."
That was a lie. Aunt Marguerite had spoiled Gumbo worse than I did. She used to cook him whole roasted chickens with herbs, presenting them on a silver platter like he was visiting royalty. "He's family, chere," she'd say when I pointed out thatalligators didn't actually need rosemary seasoning. "Family eats well."
I tossed a fish toward Gumbo's massive head. His jaws snapped shut with a sound like a door slamming, and the fish disappeared in one gulp. He didn't even have the decency to look grateful.
"You're welcome," I told him, throwing another. "Ingrate." His tail swished through the water, splashing droplets across my legs. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was laughing at me.
The truth was, I didn't mind. These mornings—just me, Gumbo and the bayou waking up around us—were the best part of my day. No one expecting anything from me. No one judging the wild Delacroix girl for talking to her pet alligator like he was a person. No one reminding me, in a hundred small ways, that Omegas were supposed to be soft and sweet and desperate for an Alpha's attention.
I'd never been any of those things. Marguerite had made sure of that.
"Alright, that's enough." I stood up, dusting fish scales off my hands. "I've got work today. Try not to eat any tourists while I'm gone."
Gumbo sank beneath the surface until only his eyes were visible, tracking me as I walked back up the dock toward the cabin. I could feel his gaze on my back all the way to the door—watchful, protective, eternally patient.
My cabin sat on stilts above the waterline, cypress wood weathered to a soft gray, the wraparound porch draped in hanging plants that Marguerite had started and I'd somehow managed not to kill. Inside was cluttered and cozy—mismatched furniture, stacks of books, tarot decks on every flat surface, and the massive nest that took up what used to be two rooms.
I showered quickly, scrubbing the fish smell from my hands, and pulled on my "going to town" clothes—cutoff shorts thatwere only slightly frayed, a tank top that was almost respectable, and sandals that I'd probably kick off within an hour. I twisted my hair up into a messy bun and called it good enough.
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I turned to leave and paused, studying myself with the same critical eye I'd use on a client. Wild dark auburn hair already escaping the bun, curling in the humidity. Pale skin scattered with freckles—across my nose, my cheeks, trailing down my neck and shoulders like cinnamon sprinkled by a careless hand. Green-gold eyes that Marguerite had always called "swamp witch eyes," the color shifting depending on the light. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, a face that was more interesting than pretty.
The scar on my left forearm caught the light—Gumbo's teeth, when I was fourteen and stupid enough to startle him. I'd won that fight. Barely. I wasn't beautiful in the soft, delicate way people expected Omegas to be. I was something wilder. Sharper. The kind of woman who made people nervous without trying.
Good, I thought, and meant it. My phone buzzed as I was hunting for my keys.
Mrs. Landry is here. Don't forget the apple brandy for Henri's memorial. He was VERY particular. Fontenot Distillery makes the best.
I stared at the message for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen. I'd done readings for Mrs. Landry for years—she came to me every month to talk to her dead husband, even though I'd explained multiple times that tarot didn't work that way. But she paid well and she was lonely and sometimes the cards told me things that brought her comfort, so I kept taking her appointments.
Got it, I typed back.I'll pick it up today.
I'd never been to the Fontenot Distillery. Heard of it, sure—everyone in the parish knew the Fontenot name. Old family, old money, old recipes passed down through generations. Thecurrent Fontenot was supposed to be some kind of recluse, running the operation alone since his grandfather died and his grandmother was too sick to run it.. People talked about him in town sometimes, always in hushed voices, like he was a ghost story instead of a person.
Massive, they said.Quiet. Keeps to himself. Something happened when he was young, something bad.Small town gossip. I didn't put much stock in it.
My truck complained bitterly when I turned the key, coughing and sputtering before finally catching. "I know," I muttered, patting the dashboard. "We'll get you fixed up one of these days."
The truck didn't believe me. Neither did I, honestly.We had an understanding—it kept running, and I kept pretending I was going to take it to a mechanic.
The drive to the Fontenot Distillery took about forty minutes, winding through the kind of back roads that don't show up on GPS and wouldn't be passable after a good rain. Spanish moss hung from the trees like curtains, filtering the sunlight into something soft and golden. I rolled down the windows and let the warm air wash over me, thick with the scent of green things growing and water moving slow.
This was my favorite thing about living out here—the wildness of it. The sense that civilization was just a suggestion, easily ignored. I'd spent my first sixteen years in Baton Rouge, squeezed into a life that had never fit right, trying to be the Alpha daughter my parents wanted. When I'd presented as Omega instead, they'd looked at me like I'd betrayed them on purpose.
Marguerite had taken one look at me—skinny and scared and still bleeding from where I'd scraped my arm running away from their disappointment—and said, "Well, chere. Looks like you belong to the bayou now."
And I did. I'd never belonged anywhere else.
The Fontenot property announced itself with an ancient wooden sign, the words so faded I could barely make them out. I turned down the dirt road and immediately regretted it—every pothole felt like a personal attack, my truck's suspension groaning in protest.
