"She wounds me." He declared to no one in particular, his amber eyes going wide with theatrical hurt. "She invites me to her home, makes me bond with these two, and then insults my cooking." He shook his head, his curls bouncing.
"Have you ever cooked gumbo?" Harper asked, one dark eyebrow raised, his arms crossed over his massive chest as he watched Remy with something that might have been the beginning of amusement.
"That's not the point." Remy deflected smoothly, following me toward the kitchen, his boots echoing on the wooden floor. "The point is the disrespect." He leaned against the counter, watching as I stirred the pot. "Although, to be fair, that does smell incredible." He admitted, inhaling deeply, his eyes closing in appreciation.
"It's the roux." I said, lifting the lid to let the steam escape, rich and fragrant, watching the way his eyes tracked my movements with that quiet intensity. "Dark roux, cooked low and slow. Marguerite used to say you couldn't rush a roux any more than you could rush falling in love." I smiled at the memory, something bittersweet tugging at my chest.
"Sounds like a wise woman." Silas appeared in the kitchen doorway, his large frame filling the space, his pale eyes soft as he watched me.
"She was." I nodded, pulling bowls down from the cabinet, my fingers brushing the familiar ceramic that Marguerite had picked out years ago. "She would have liked you three. Would have probably told you exactly what she thought of you, too. No filter whatsoever." I laughed softly, the sound catching in my throat.
"My kind of woman." Harper said, joining the cluster in my small kitchen, making it suddenly feel very crowded, his scent mingling with Remy's and Silas's until the air was thick with Alpha pheromones—cedar and moonshine, river water and honey, rain and moss and ozone—three distinct signatures weaving together into something new. "Need help?" He asked, looking at the pot of gumbo and then at the stack of bowls, his dark eyes warm.
"You can slice the bread." I pointed to the loaf on the counter, watching him move toward it with that quiet grace that seemed impossible for someone his size. "Silas, there's rice in the pot on the back burner." I glanced at the pale-eyed Alpha, who nodded and moved to help without a word. "Remy..." I paused, trying to think of something he couldn't mess up, watching the way he leaned against the counter with that studied casualness. "You can set the table." I finished.
"Setting the table." He repeated, sounding deeply offended, his amber eyes narrowing. "That's what you trust me with." He grabbed the plates anyway, carrying them toward the small dining table with exaggerated dignity.
"You're the one who just claimed his cooking was insulted when he's never cooked gumbo." I pointed out reasonably, ladling the thick stew into bowls over perfect mounds of white rice, the rich aroma of dark roux and andouille filling my small kitchen.
"She's got you there." Silas said from the doorway, his voice carrying that dry humor I was only just learning to recognize, his pale eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he watched Remy's indignation—and I nearly dropped the ladle in shock, the stew sloshing dangerously.
"Did you just... was that a joke?" Remy spun around, eyes wide, nearly dropping a plate. "Someone mark the calendar. Boudreaux made a joke." He clutched his chest dramatically.
"I can be funny." Silas said, his voice flat as ever, but there was a glint in his pale eyes that hadn't been there before, something lighter, and his broad shoulders had lost some of their rigid tension.
"Debatable." Harper rumbled, but he was almost smiling as he said it, his dark eyes warm, his massive hands working the bread knife with surprising dexterity as he sliced the loaf into thick pieces.
We settled around my small table, four people squeezed into a space meant for two, elbows bumping and knees touching. It should have been uncomfortable. Instead, it felt right. Like pieces of a puzzle finally fitting together, edges aligning in ways I hadn't expected.
"This is incredible." Remy said around a mouthful of gumbo, all pretense of offense forgotten, his amber eyes closing in obvious pleasure. "I take back everything I implied about your cooking." He scooped up another bite, practically moaning.
"Agreed." Harper nodded, his spoon scraping the bottom of his bowl already, his dark eyes warm with appreciation as he looked at me across the small table. "This is as good as Mémère's." He said it like it was the highest compliment he could give, his deep voice soft with sincerity, and I knew from the way he said it—from the reverence in his tone—that his grandmother's cooking was sacred to him.
Silas said nothing, his pale eyes focused on his bowl with an intensity usually reserved for tracking prey, but he was on his second bowl before anyone else had finished their first, his spoon scraping against the ceramic in a steady rhythm that spoke louder than words.
"So." I said, pushing my own empty bowl away and looking around the table at the three of them. "Same time next week?" I let my gaze move from one to the next, watching their reactions.
"I'll be here." Harper said immediately, his dark eyes holding mine across the table, his massive hand reaching out to cover mine where it rested near my empty bowl, the warmth of his touch grounding and sure.
"Wouldn't miss it." Remy agreed, his usual grin softening into something more genuine, his amber eyes bright as he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of it, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him all evening.
Silas just nodded once, a single dip of his chin, but his pale eyes were warm when they met mine, something soft flickering in their depths that made my breath catch, and I understood that for him, that nod was as good as a declaration.
"Good." I smiled, feeling something settle in my chest—hope, maybe, or the first fragile beginnings of trust. "Then we have a standing date. Thursday nights. Dinner and..." I gestured vaguely at the room. "Whatever this is." I finished.
"Pack meeting." Harper supplied, trying the words out like he was testing their weight, his deep voice rolling over the syllables with something that sounded almost like wonder, his dark eyes softening at the concept.
"Pack meeting." I agreed, liking the sound of it, feeling the word settle into place like it had always belonged there, my green-gold eyes moving from one face to the next—Harper's quiet strength, Remy's bright charm, Silas's watchful stillness—and finding something that felt like home in each of them.
The evening stretched on, easier than I'd expected. Harper helped me wash dishes, his large hands surprisingly gentle with my grandmother's old china. Remy played guitar on the porch, his voice drifting through the open windows—something soft and sweet that I didn't recognize but that made my heart ache in the best way. Silas sat on the dock with Gumbo, the two of them watching the sunset in comfortable silence, an understanding between predators that required no words.
"This is good." Harper said quietly, his shoulder brushing mine as we stood side by side at the sink, warm water running over our hands. "I didn't think... I wasn't sure..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"That it could work?" I finished for him, rinsing the last bowl and setting it in the rack to dry, glancing up at his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark brows furrowed when hewas thinking, the gentleness in hands that could probably crush stone.
"That I could share." He admitted, his dark eyes fixed on the water running over his hands. "That I could watch them with you and not want to..." He made a vague gesture, his jaw tight.
"Fight?" I suggested, reaching over to turn off the tap, my fingers brushing his in the process, feeling the rough calluses against my skin, the barely-contained strength in his hands.
