"How's he doing?" Harper's voice rumbled from behind me, and I felt his arms wrap around my waist, his chest solid and warm against my back.
"Nervous." I leaned into him, letting his steadiness ground me. "But he'll be okay. We'll make sure of it."
"Damn right we will." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his beard scratching pleasantly against my hair. "The roast is resting. Silas is setting the table. I moved all the breakables out of reach in case Gumbo decides to make an appearance."
I snorted despite my own nerves. "He's not going to come inside during dinner."
"He came inside last Tuesday." Harper's voice was dry as dust, one eyebrow arched.
"That was different. There was a thunderstorm." I waved a dismissive hand.
"He ate half a ham." Harper's expression remained unimpressed, though I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"He was stressed." I poked Harper in the chest, my finger barely denting his solid muscle. "And you're the one who left the ham on the counter where he could reach it, so really, that's on you."
"The counter is four feet high." He caught my poking finger, wrapping his massive hand around it gently.
"And Gumbo is very determined." I turned in Harper's arms, looking up at his face—that steady jaw, the silver threadingthrough his beard that hadn't been there when we met. "Are you nervous? About meeting them?"
"No." His answer was immediate, certain, no hesitation in his deep voice. "They raised Remy. That tells me everything I need to know about what kind of people they are." His hands settled on my hips, thumbs tracing gentle circles through the fabric of my dress. "Besides, they helped save your land. Our land. I owe them more than I can ever repay."
"You don't owe them anything. That's not how family works." I smoothed my hands over his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath my palms.
"Speaking of family." Silas appeared in the doorway, silent as always, his expression carefully neutral but something warm lurking beneath. He'd dressed up too—dark slacks, a charcoal sweater that hid most of his scars but not all of them. He'd made that choice deliberately, I knew. No hiding. Not anymore. "There's a car coming up the drive."
Remy made a sound from the kitchen that might have been a whimper. I extracted myself from Harper's arms and crossed to where Remy stood frozen by the stove, his knuckles white around a wooden spoon. His face had gone pale beneath his tan, and I could see his pulse jumping in his throat.
"Hey." I took the spoon from his unresisting fingers and set it aside. "We're right here. All of us. Whatever happens, you're not facing it alone."
"What if they hate the house?" His voice came out strangled, too fast. "What if they hate the pack dynamics? What if my maman takes one look at Silas and?—"
"Then she'll see a man who loves her son and would die to protect him." Silas's voice cut through Remy's spiral, quiet but firm. He'd moved to stand beside us, close enough to touch but not quite doing so. "Parents recognize that. Good ones, anyway."
Remy stared at him, something vulnerable and raw flickering across his features, his throat working. "Silas—" He couldn't seem to finish, couldn't find the words for whatever emotion was choking him.
"They drove hours to see you." Harper joined us, completing the circle, his massive presence somehow both intimidating and comforting. "They've been calling every week since the courthouse. Your mother sent four care packages last month. Four, Remy. That's not the behavior of people who are going to judge you."
"The cookies were good," Silas added, his lips twitching. "The pralines were better."
A choked laugh escaped Remy's throat. "She makes them every Christmas. It's a whole production. Takes over the entire kitchen, won't let anyone help—" He broke off, something painful and sweet crossing his face. "I haven't been home for Christmas in twelve years."
"Then maybe this year, you will be." I took his hand, threading our fingers together. "But first—one step at a time. One dinner. One meeting. If it's too much, we leave. We make an excuse and we leave. No one is going to force you to do anything you're not ready for." He looked at me, then at Harper, then at Silas. Something in his expression shifted—the fear still there but joined now by determination, by hope, by the fierce love that burned beneath all his charm and bluster.
"Okay." He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders. "Okay. Let's do this."
The doorbell rang.
For a moment, none of us moved. Then Remy laughed—shaky but real—and ran a hand through his carefully styled hair, destroying it entirely.
"Here goes nothing, cher." He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and headed for the door with the determined stride of a man walking toward his fate.
The woman who stood on our porch was small, dark-haired, and had Remy's exact same dimples.
"Mon bébé." Her voice cracked on the words, her dark eyes already filling with tears, her hands reaching out to cup Remy's face like she couldn't quite believe he was real. She was elegant in a cream-colored blouse and dark slacks, pearls at her throat, but there was nothing formal about the way she pulled her son into her arms and held on like she'd never let go. "Oh, mon bébé, look at you. Look at you."
"Maman." Remy's voice was muffled against her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her so tight I could see his knuckles going white. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry?—"
"Shh, non, none of that." She pulled back just enough to look at him, her small hands still framing his face, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. "No more apologizing. You're here now. That's all that matters." She stretched up on her toes to press a kiss to his forehead, then both cheeks, then his forehead again. "My beautiful boy. My Remy. Oh, I have missed you so much."
