She didn't say anything. Didn't offer platitudes or sympathy. Just stood there, steady and present, waiting.
"My family forgave me." I continued after a moment, my voice rough. "Immediately. Completely. Which somehow made it worse. Because I couldn't forgive myself, and every time they looked at me with all that love and understanding, I just—" I shook my head. "I ran. Spent years running from town to town, woman to woman, gig to gig. Trying to outrun the guilt." A bitter smile twisted my lips. "Spoiler alert: it didn't work." I let out a shaky breath.
"Why did you come back?" She asked quietly.
"My father got sick." My hands were shaking now, and I shoved them in my pockets to hide it. "Three years ago. I came back to help, told myself it was temporary. But then he got better, and I... couldn't leave again. Running stopped working." I met her eyes. "So I stayed. And I played my songs and smiled my smiles and pretended everything was fine. Until you." The last two words came out barely above a whisper.
"Until me." She repeated softly.
"You looked at me like you could see everything." I stepped closer, close enough to smell her scent properly—apple cider under the anger, warm and sweet. "All the ugly, broken parts I keep hidden. And you didn't look away. You held my hand and told me you liked the real version better." My voice was shaking now. "Do you have any idea what that did to me?" The words came out raw and desperate.
She reached out and took my hand. Just like she had that night at the Hook. Her fingers wrapped around mine, warm andcertain. I trembled. Couldn't help it. Touch that wasn't about sex, wasn't about performance—just connection, just comfort. I'd forgotten what that felt like.
"Thursday night." Her voice was steady, cutting through the fog in my head. "My cabin. You, Fontenot, and Boudreaux. All three of you." She squeezed my hand once before letting go.
"What?" I blinked at her, confused.
"I'm tired of being circled." She stepped back, her expression shifting into something fierce and determined. "I'm tired of Alphas making decisions about me without talking to me. So Thursday night, all three of you are going to show up at my cabin, and we're going to have a conversation like actual adults." She raised one eyebrow. "Think you can manage that?" Her voice was dry as dust.
"Yes." I nodded quickly, still reeling. "Yes, absolutely. I'll be there." The words tumbled out eager and breathless.
"Good." She turned toward the gangplank, then paused. Looked back at me over her shoulder. "And Remy?" My name in her voice made something warm bloom in my chest.
"Yeah?" I managed.
"Next time you want to show me the real you?" She held my gaze, green-gold eyes bright with challenge. "Actually show me. Don't hide in the shadows like a coward. I don't have time for cowards." She smiled then—sharp and bright and devastating. "I liked what I saw that night at the Hook. I want to see more of it. But you have to actually let me see it." She held my gaze for one long moment.
Then she was gone, walking down the gangplank, climbing into her rattling truck, driving away in a cloud of dust and gravel. I stood on the deck of La Belle Menteuse, my hand still tingling where she'd held it, watching until her truck disappeared around the bend.
Thursday. Four days.
I had four days to figure out how to stop hiding and actually be the person she'd seen that night at the bar. The thought was terrifying. It was also the first thing that had felt real in years.
I picked up my guitar and started playing. The melody that had been stuck for weeks suddenly found its way forward, notes tumbling out like they'd been waiting for permission.
I played until the sun went down, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't running from anything.
I was running toward something.
Chapter Eight
Salis
The hawk was healing nicely.
I checked her wing for the third time that morning, fingers gentle as I probed the mending bone. She snapped at me—weak but defiant—and I dodged without thinking. Good. The fight was coming back. That meant she'd live.
I'd known it the moment the Omega had walked onto my property, that dying bird cradled against her chest like something precious. Most people would have left it. Let nature take its course. She'd driven thirty minutes down back roads to find a stranger who might be able to help.
Artemis Delacroix. I'd learned her name that day. Learned other things too—the way she held my gaze without flinching, the sharp edge hidden under all that warmth, the wildness in her that recognized the wildness in me.
Neither do you. Not really.
I set the hawk back in her cage and stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Three weeks. Three weeks since she'd stood in my makeshift surgery and looked at me like she could see past all the walls I'd built. Three weeks of telling myself to stay away, to let it go, to stop thinking about green-gold eyes and apple cider scent and the way she'd saidthank you, Silaslike my name meant something.
I'd never been good at staying away from things that could hurt me. The first time I went to her property, I told myself I was checking on the area. Making sure the developers hadn't expanded their reach. Crescent Holdings had been circling the parish for months, and I'd been keeping tabs on them—old habit, gathering intel. Nothing to do with her.
