I'd built it in what used to be Aunt Marguerite's sewing room, knocking out one wall to expand into the spare bedroom. It had taken me three months of sawing and hammering and cursing, but it was worth it. The nest took up nearly the entire space now—a sprawling sanctuary of quilts and pillows and soft blankets in deep jewel tones. Burgundy, forest green, midnight blue. Colors that made me feel safe. Grounded.
There was a depression on one side, worn into the perfect shape by years of Gumbo settling his bulk there on cool nights. The blankets in that spot were reinforced, doubled up to protect against his rough scales. And lately, I'd started leaving space on the other sides too. Room for something. Someone.
Someone’s, my instincts whispered, curling warm in my chest. I crawled into the center of the nest, still slightly damp, and pulled one of Aunt Marguerite's quilts around my shoulders. The fabric was soft with age, the stitching done by hand in tiny,perfect rows. It still smelled faintly of her—lavender and old books and something sharp that might have been the herbs she used to dry in the kitchen window. I buried my nose in it and breathed deep, letting the scent fill my lungs.
"I miss you." The words came out rough, scraping past the lump in my throat. I spoke to the empty room. To her memory. To whatever part of her might still be lingering in this house she'd loved so much.
No answer, of course. There never was. Sometimes, if I was quiet enough, I could almost feel her presence. A warmth at my back. A whisper of approval. The faint scent of lavender growing stronger for just a moment before fading away.
Gumbo lumbered through the door—I'd installed a flap for him years ago, much to the horror of everyone who'd ever visited—and settled into his spot with a heavy sigh that made the blankets puff up around him. The nest dipped under his weight, familiar and comforting. I reached over to rest my hand on his scales, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath them, and something in my chest unknotted.
"So." I shifted to face him, tucking my legs beneath me and pulling the quilt tighter. "Let's discuss the elephant in the room. Or should I say, the three Alphas circling like sharks who think they're being subtle." I raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for a response.
Gumbo's tail twitched, the heavy length of it thudding softly against the nest. I took that as encouragement.
"First, there's Harper Fontenot." I let the name roll off my tongue, remembering the way he'd looked at me across that counter, all dark eyes and words that came out like they cost him something. "You've seen him lurking around the property, don't pretend you haven't." I pointed at Gumbo accusingly, and he had the audacity to look away. "Big as a house, and he finally admitted he can't stop thinking about me." I flopped backagainst my pillows, staring up at the ceiling where morning light was starting to creep through the curtains in golden slats.
"He's been hovering. Not approaching, not speaking—just watching. At first it was creepy. Then I noticed the other things. The supplies that appeared on my dock when I was running low. The fence posts that got repaired while I was in town." My hand stilled on the quilt. "The way he always seems to position himself between me and trouble at community gatherings, even when he pretends not to notice I exist." I turned my head to look at Gumbo, who was watching me with those ancient, unblinking eyes.
"I went back to the distillery. Made him talk to me." I smiled a little, remembering the way his hands had gripped the counter, the way his words had come out all broken and halting. "He said no one ever saw him before. Saw who he really was." I traced a pattern on the quilt. "I held his hand, Gumbo. He looked at me like I'd given him something precious." I sat up, crossing my legs beneath me.
Gumbo made a low sound in his throat. Agreement? Skepticism? Hard to tell with a reptile.
"Then there's Remy Thibodaux." I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips—exasperated, a little charmed despite myself. "The pretty musician with the dimples and the devil-may-care grin. He's been making a damn nuisance of himself ever since I saw through his little act at The Rusty Hook." I shook my head, remembering. "Showing up at the farmer's market where I sell my herbs. Playing gigs on nights I happen to be doing readings. Lurking at gas stations like a creep." I rolled my eyes at the memory.
"I called him out on it." I admitted, picking at a loose thread on the quilt. "Told him to stop following me and actually try talking to me if he wanted to understand." I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. "You shouldhave seen his face, Gumbo. That pretty smile just... slipped. And underneath it, he asked me if it would be so bad. If he was following me." My voice softened. "He's charming. Too charming. The kind of charming that usually means trouble. He uses that smile like a weapon, like armor."
"I saw underneath it, though. That night at the bar, when he sang about Luc. His brother." I rested my chin on my knees. "There's something real under all that performance. Something broken that he doesn't let anyone see. And when I called him out at the gas station, for just a second, I saw that real version again." I sighed. "He wanted to understand, he said. Wanted to be close." I unwrapped my arms and stretched out on my stomach.
Gumbo shifted, his scales rasping against the blankets.
"And then there's Silas." I said his name differently than the others—quieter, more careful, like handling something that might shatter. "The quiet one. The dangerous one." I propped my chin on my hands, staring at the wall. "He runs that wildlife rehabilitation place out by the preserve. Barely says two words at a time, moves like smoke, and looks at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm predator or prey."
"We've been working together." I admitted to Gumbo's unblinking stare. "Ever since I brought him that hawk. He's been teaching me how to hold the animals for treatment. How to help." I thought about the comfortable silences between us. The way he'd invited me to visit, stilted and uncertain, like he wasn't used to wanting company. "He told me I don't fit in the boxes people try to put me in. Like he knew exactly what that felt like." I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling.
"He's the one who scares me the most." I confessed. "Not because I think he'd hurt me—but because I think he understands me. In a way the others don't. In a way no one ever has." I thought about silver eyes and silent footsteps. "He's beencircling too. I've caught his scent at the edges of my property. Always watching, never approaching—except when I go to him." I let out a slow breath. "Three visits now. And each time, it gets harder to leave."
Three Alphas. All different, all damaged, all drawn to me like moths to a flame. All three of them had found those survey stakes before me and hadn't said a word.
"They're keeping secrets." I told Gumbo, and the anger from yesterday flickered back to life in my chest. "Protecting me without asking if I want to be protected. Like I'm some fragile little Omega who can't handle her own problems." I sat up abruptly, the quilt pooling around my waist.
Gumbo made a rumbling sound that might have been commiseration.
"I need to think about this properly." I decided, reaching for my tarot deck on the shelf beside the nest. The cards were warm from the morning sun streaming through the window, the worn edges familiar against my fingers. "Let's see what the universe has to say." I shuffled the deck with practiced ease, the cards whispering against each other.
I drew three cards and laid them out on the quilt between us.
The first: The Star. Hope, renewal, serenity. A naked woman kneeling by a pool of water, pouring from two vessels. One into the pool, one onto the land. Balance. Faith. The calm after the storm.
The second: The Three of Cups. Celebration, friendship, community. Three women dancing together, cups raised high. Joy shared. Connection. Belonging.
The third made me pause. The Tower. Lightning struck a stone tower, flames bursting from its windows, figures tumbling from its heights. Upheaval, destruction, sudden change. Everything you thought you knew, demolished in an instant.
"Well, that's ominous." I frowned at the card, but I couldn't deny the way my pulse kicked up. Not with fear—with excitement. A grin spread across my face, wild and reckless. I'd been stagnant too long. Maybe a little destruction was exactly what I needed.
I gathered the cards, tucked them safely back into their cypress box, and decided I'd been lazy long enough. Time to do my rounds.
The morning sun was properly up now, the bayou alive with birdsong and the splash of fish and the constant drone of insects. The air smelled of mud and growing things and the faint sweetness of honeysuckle from somewhere on the bank. I grabbed my pirogue—a flat-bottomed boat Marguerite had taught me to pole before I could ride a bike—and pushed off from the dock, the water parting around the bow in a gentle vee.
