"Would that be so bad?" His voice had dropped, losing its playful edge. "If I was?" He'd taken a step closer, close enough that I could smell honey and cinnamon and wanting.
"Depends on why." I'd finished pumping my gas and replaced the nozzle, not giving him an inch. "I don't like being hunted, Remy." I'd met his eyes, letting him see I meant it.
"What if it's not hunting?" He'd tilted his head, those amber eyes searching my face. "What if it's just... wanting to be close? Wanting to understand?" His voice had gone soft, almost vulnerable. I'd considered him for a long moment. The charm was still there, but muted. Underneath it, I could see the real Remy—the one who'd sung about Luc, the one with ghosts in his eyes.
"Then maybe you should try actually talking to me." I'd climbed into my truck and started the engine. "Instead of lurking at gas stations like a creep." I'd pulled away before he could respond, but I'd seen his reflection in my rearview mirror—standing there, watching me go, something complicated on his handsome face.
The next encounter was Harper. I'd gone back to the Fontenot Distillery for more brandy—Mrs. Landry had loved the bottle I'd brought for her husband's memorial, wanted another for his birthday. At least that's what I told myself. The shop was empty when I arrived, but I could hear movement in the back. I waited at the counter, idly examining the bottles on display, and tried not to think about the last time I'd been here. The brush of his fingers. The heat in his eyes.
He emerged from the back room and stopped dead when he saw me.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. He stood there, filling the doorway, those dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed at his sides.
"Artemis." My name in his voice was like whiskey—rough and warm and dangerous. He said it like he'd been practicing,like he'd been turning it over in his mouth when no one was listening.
"Harper." I let his name sit between us, watching the way his jaw tightened at the sound of it. "I need another bottle of that brandy. The 1962." I kept my voice steady, businesslike.
He nodded, moving behind the counter with that careful control I remembered. Giving me space. Keeping distance between us like I was something volatile.
"I've seen your truck." I said it while his back was turned, while he was reaching for a bottle on a high shelf. "Around town. Parked in places you have no reason to be." I watched the muscles in his back tense. He was quiet for a long moment. When he turned around, the bottle in his hands, his expression was unreadable.
"I'm not good at this." The words came out rough, reluctant, like they'd been dragged from somewhere deep. "Talking. Being around people." He set the bottle on the counter, his eyes fixed on it rather than me.
"Then why are you trying?" I stepped closer, close enough to smell moonshine and cedar. "Why follow me around town if you're not going to say anything?" I kept my voice gentle, curious rather than accusatory. His throat worked. Those dark eyes finally lifted to meet mine, and I saw something raw in them. Something hungry and afraid and desperate.
"Because I can't—" He stopped, jaw working like the words were stuck. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles going white. He tried again. "You. I can't stop..." He shook his head, frustrated with himself, those dark eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. "The brandy. What you said about it. My grandmother's heart in a bottle." He finally looked at me, raw and exposed. "No one ever saw that before." He swallowed hard. "Saw me." The last two words came out rough, almost pained, and then he looked away like he'd said too much.
I stood there, processing. The silent, stoic Alpha who'd barely said ten words to me the first time we met—pouring out his confusion like it cost him everything.
"You could start by saying hello." I reached out and covered his hand with mine, feeling him flinch at the contact. "When you see me in town. Instead of lurking in your truck like a stalker." I let a small smile curl my lips.
A sound escaped him—almost a laugh, rough and surprised. "I'll... try." His hand turned under mine, his fingers brushing against my palm. "It's been a long time since I've had anyone to say hello to." He admitted quietly, his voice rough with something that might have been loneliness.
"Well." I squeezed his hand once, then let go. "Now you do." I pulled out my wallet to pay for the brandy.
The dreams started that night. Not the vague, pleasant dreams I'd been having before—moonshine and honey and rain, all swirled together. These were vivid. Intense. The kind that woke me up gasping, my skin flushed and my heart racing. In the dreams, there were hands. Multiple hands, all different—massive and scarred, calloused from guitar strings, burned from work with animals. They touched me everywhere, gentle and demanding all at once. Mouths at my throat, my shoulder, my hip. Voices in my ear, murmuring things I couldn't quite hear. I woke up tangled in my sheets, Gumbo's eyes glowing in the darkness outside my window, and knew I was in trouble.
Three Alphas. All circling. All watching. All wanting something from me that I wasn't sure I was ready to give.
"This isn't normal." I said to the ceiling, my voice rough with sleep. "This doesn't happen to people." I threw an arm over my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart. Except it was happening. To me. And I had no idea what to do about it.
A week later, I found the survey stakes. I'd been walking my property line, checking for damage after a storm, whenI spotted them—bright orange markers driven into the soft ground at regular intervals. Fresh. Recent. Professional-looking, with a company logo stamped on the plastic flags: CRESCENT HOLDINGS LLC.
Someone was surveying my land. Someone with money and lawyers and plans I hadn't been told about. I crouched down to examine one of the stakes, my blood already starting to heat. That's when I caught the scents—layered over the plastic and fresh-turned earth, like someone had been here recently. Multiple someones.
Moonshine and cedar. Honey and cinnamon. Rain and ozone.
All three of them. They'd found these stakes before I had. Been here, examined them, and hadn't said a damn word to me about it.
I stood up slowly, anger mixing with something more complicated. The stakes weren't from them—that much was obvious. Crescent Holdings, whoever they were, had put these here. But my three circling Alphas had known about it. Had been sneaking around my property, investigating threats to my land, and decided I didn't need to know.
Like I needed protecting. Like I couldn't handle my own problems.
I yanked every stake I could find out of the ground, one by one, the satisfying resistance of metal pulling free from wet earth doing nothing to calm the fury building in my chest. Seven stakes total. I carried them back to the cabin in a bundle, orange flags fluttering against my arm.
Gumbo was waiting on the porch when I got back, his massive head lifted, nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of my anger.
"Don't." I warned him, climbing the steps and dropping the stakes in a pile by the door. "I'm not in the mood." I pushed through the screen door and let it bang shut behind me.
