Inside, I paced. The cabin suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in. I wanted to hit something. Wanted to scream. Wanted to drive into town and demand answers from three Alphas who apparently thought I was too fragile to handle my own business.
Instead, I made myself sit. Pulled Marguerite's quilt around my shoulders and stared at the wall, breathing slow and deliberate until the red haze of fury faded to something more manageable.
Three Alphas. All circling. All keeping secrets.
Now a development company staking claims on land that had been in my family for generations. I needed to think. Needed to plan. Needed to figure out what the hell I was going to do about all of it.
Tomorrow. I'd deal with it tomorrow.
As I finally drifted off to sleep that night, Gumbo's bulk warm against my side, my dreams were full of orange flags and hungry eyes and the growing certainty that my quiet life was about to get very, very complicated.
Chapter Five
Artemis
The bayou woke before the sun did, and so did I.
I slipped out of my nest in the gray pre-dawn, bare feet silent on the worn cypress floorboards. The wood was cool and smooth beneath my toes, polished by generations of Delacroix women walking this same path. Gumbo lifted his massive head from his spot at the foot of my bed, one amber eye cracking open to track my movement. His scales caught the faint light filtering through the curtains, dark green and ridged like ancient armor.
"Go back to sleep, baby." I kept my voice soft, barely above a whisper, as I trailed my fingers across his rough scales. The texture was familiar, comforting—like running my hand over tree bark or stone worn smooth by water.
He made a low rumble in his throat—not quite a growl, more like acknowledgment—and settled his massive chin back down onto his folded front legs. Nine feet and four hundred pounds of prehistoric murder machine, and he slept in my nest like an overgrown housecat. Aunt Marguerite had called him my familiar. I just called him family.
The screen door creaked as I pushed through it onto the porch, the sound sharp in the morning stillness. The pile of survey stakes was still there, orange flags drooping in the humid air, a reminder of yesterday's fury. I stepped over them and kept walking.
The bayou greeted me with its thick, humid embrace, the air so heavy with moisture I could almost drink it. The moss hung like ghostly curtains from the cypress trees, swaying slightly in a breeze I couldn't feel.
The water itself was black glass, still and perfect, reflecting the first pink fingers of dawn creeping across the sky. Mist curled above its surface like smoke, burning off slowly as the temperature rose.
I dropped my sleep shirt on the porch railing—faded cotton that had once been red, now washed to a soft pink—and walked naked down to my dock. Some Omegas would clutch their pearls at the thought. What if someone sees? What if an Alpha catches your scent? As if my body was something to hide. As if my scent was something to be ashamed of.
Aunt Marguerite had cured me of that nonsense years ago.
"Your body is yours, chere," she'd said, her voice carrying that particular blend of French and Louisiana that I'd never heard anywhere else. We'd been standing in front of the bathroom mirror, and I'd been flinching away from my own reflection after my first heat—disgusted by the slick between my thighs, the flush on my skin, the way my scent had turned thick and sweet. She'd gripped my chin with surprisingly strong fingers and forced me to meet my own eyes. "Your scent is your power. Never let anyone make you think otherwise."
I dove into the water without hesitation, the cool shock of it racing across my skin like electricity. The bayou swallowed me whole, dark and secret and ancient, and I let it. I swam down until my fingers brushed the silty bottom, soft mud squishingbetween them, before pushing back up toward the surface. I broke through with a gasp, slicking my wet hair back from my face, and floated on my back as the sun finally crested the treeline.
This was my favorite part of the day. Just me and the water and the slowly waking world. No Alphas with their hungry eyes and barely-leashed instincts. No whispered gossip from town about the "wild Delacroix girl" living alone in the swamp. No parents who'd thrown me away like defective merchandise the moment I'd presented.
Just peace.
A ripple in the water nearby told me Gumbo had decided to join me after all. His snout broke the surface about ten feet away, just his eyes and nostrils visible above the waterline—two golden orbs floating in the dark water like something out of a nightmare. I knew better. I knew the intelligence behind those eyes, the loyalty, the strange reptilian affection that most people couldn't see.
"Couldn't stay away, huh?" I smiled at him, lazy and content, my voice carrying easily across the still water. My body rose and fell with each slow breath, the water lapping gently against my ears.
His tail swished beneath the surface, creating a small wake.
"Don't worry." I let my eyes drift closed, the sun warm on my face. "I won't tell anyone you're secretly a softie." I floated there, letting the tension from yesterday's discovery slowly seep out of my muscles.
He blinked slowly, his nictitating membranes sliding sideways across his eyes. If alligators could look offended, he'd nailed it.
We swam together as the sun rose higher, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. Gumbo kept a respectful distance—he knew I didn't like being crowded, even by him—while Iworked the lingering sleep from my muscles with long, easy strokes. By the time the sky had shifted from pink to pale blue, I was awake in every sense of the word, my blood humming with that familiar restless energy that always seemed to live just beneath my skin.
I hauled myself back onto the dock, water streaming down my body in rivulets, and didn't bother with the shirt on my way back inside. The morning was already warm, the air thick enough to feel like a second skin, and I'd be dry before I reached the porch anyway. One of the few benefits of Louisiana summers—you never stayed wet for long.
Inside, I toweled off my hair and pulled on a pair of cutoff shorts so worn the pockets hung below the frayed hem, and a thin tank top that had seen better days—soft and nearly transparent from countless washings. Comfort over fashion, always. Besides, who was I trying to impress? The herons?
My nest called to me.
