"I need to check on a hawk in a week." I told Gumbo, pushing myself to my feet. "At the wildlife place, out by the preserve. The guy who runs it is..." I trailed off, searching for the right word. "Interesting." I headed up the dock toward the cabin.
Gumbo made a low rumbling sound that definitely sounded like skepticism.
"Shut up." I called over my shoulder, but I was smiling. "You don't even know him." I climbed the porch steps. I kept thinking about silver eyes and silent footsteps and the way Silas Boudreaux had looked at me like I was something he couldn't quite figure out.
Like maybe he wanted to.
Chapter Four
Artemis
The hawk survived.
I'd gone back to Silas's place exactly one week after I'd brought her in, just like he'd ordered. Found him in one of the aviaries, the hawk perched on his gloved arm, her wing still splinted but her golden eye bright and fierce.
"She's a fighter." He'd said it without looking at me, his attention fixed on the bird. "Infection tried to set in. She fought it off." He'd stroked one finger down her chest feathers, and she'd allowed it—which told me more about their relationship than any words could.
"When can she fly again?" I'd stepped closer, watching the way she tracked my movement. Still wild. Still dangerous. Good.
"Six weeks. Maybe eight." He'd finally turned those silver eyes on me, something unreadable in their depths. "You can visit. If you want." The words had come out stilted, like he wasn't used to offering invitations.
"I'd like that." I'd meant it, and something in my voice must have shown it because his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
That had been three weeks ago. I'd been back twice since then—once to check on the hawk, once because I'd found an injured possum on the road and didn't know what else to do with it. Both times, Silas had been distant but not unwelcoming. We'd worked in silence, him teaching me how to hold animals for treatment, me learning the rhythm of his quiet world. I hadn't mentioned the way I'd caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking. The way his scent seemed to linger on my clothes long after I left. Some things were better left unacknowledged. For now.
The first time I noticed I was being watched, I was at the general store picking up supplies. It was a nothing errand—coffee, rice, the good hot sauce they kept behind the counter. I was comparing two brands of chicory when the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I didn't turn around. Just shifted my weight, angling my body so I could see the front window in my peripheral vision. A truck was parked across the street. Dark blue, mud-splattered, familiar. I'd seen it at the Fontenot Distillery, parked beside the barn.
Harper.
I finished my shopping without acknowledging him, chatting with old Mrs. Trix about the weather and her grandchildren while she rang me up. When I walked outside, the truck was gone.
The second time, I was at the farmer's market in town. Saturday morning, the square packed with vendors selling produce and crafts and food that made my stomach growl. I was haggling with a woman over the price of fresh okra when I heard it—a guitar, somewhere nearby, playing a familiar melody. I looked up. Remy was set up near the fountain, his guitar case open for tips, that honeyed voice drawing a crowd. He wasn't looking at me. Was very pointedly not looking at me, in fact, his attention fixed on a pretty brunette in the front row. I bought myokra and walked past without stopping. Felt his eyes follow me the entire way.
The third time, I was checking on the hawk. Silas and I had just finished changing her bandages—she was healing well, the wing mending straight and strong—when I'd glanced out the window and seen a figure at the edge of the tree line. Tall. Broad. Watching.
"You have a visitor." I'd said it casually, nodding toward the window.
Silas had looked, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Fontenot." The name came out flat, neither friendly nor hostile. "He comes by sometimes. Drops off injured animals he finds on his property." He'd turned back to the hawk, dismissing the subject.
I hadn't pushed. Hadn't mentioned that Harper Fontenot had no reason to be lurking at the tree line unless he was watching something. Or someone.
After that, I started paying attention. Harper's truck, parked outside the diner when I went in for breakfast. Gone by the time I came out. Remy, playing a gig at The Rusty Hook on a night I happened to be doing readings there. Pure coincidence, according to the bartender. Remy always played Fridays. Except I'd been doing readings on Thursdays for months. This was my first Friday gig since the bachelorette party. Silas, appearing at the edge of my property one morning when I was feeding Gumbo. Just standing there at the tree line, still as stone, watching. When I'd raised my hand in greeting, he'd nodded once and melted back into the shadows like he'd never been there at all.
"They're circling." I told Gumbo, tossing him a fish. "All three of them. Like sharks who smell blood in the water." I threw another fish, watching his jaws snap shut.
Gumbo blinked at me, unimpressed.
"I'm not blood." I clarified, sitting down on the dock and dangling my feet over the water. "I'm not prey. I just..." I trailed off, staring out at the cypress trees draped in moss. I didn't know what I was. That was the problem.
The run-ins kept happening. Small moments that could have been coincidence if there weren't so damn many of them. I went to the library to return some books and found Harper in the parking lot, leaning against his truck like he'd been waiting. He'd straightened when he saw me, opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then just nodded and drove away. I stopped at the gas station and Remy was there, filling up a motorcycle I'd never seen him ride. He'd grinned when he saw me—that practiced, charming grin—but something underneath it had been different. Hungrier.
"Chere." He'd tipped an imaginary hat, his amber eyes warm. "Fancy meeting you here." He'd leaned against the pump, all easy confidence and golden curls.
"Is it?" I'd raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide my skepticism. "A coincidence, I mean." I'd kept my voice dry, unimpressed. His grin had faltered, just for a second.
"Maybe I just like the ambiance." He'd recovered quickly, gesturing at the fluorescent lights, the smell of gasoline, the flickering lottery sign in the window with exaggerated appreciation.
"Maybe you're following me." I'd said it lightly, like a joke, but watched his reaction carefully. He'd gone still. That easy smile had slipped, revealing something more serious underneath.
