"Don't tell anyone." He leaned across the console, cupping my face in his scarred hands. "I have a reputation to maintain." He murmured, and then he kissed me one last time—slow and thorough and full of everything we hadn't said yet.
"Thursday." I whispered when we finally pulled apart, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw one last time.
"Thursday." He confirmed, his pale eyes warm in the morning light. I climbed out of the truck and watched him drive away, his taillights disappearing down the bayou road. Gumbo rumbled low in his throat as I approached the dock, and I could have sworn it sounded like approval.
"I know." I told him, settling down beside his massive bulk on the sun-warmed wood, letting his familiar presence ground me. "I know. They're all something, aren't they?" I scratched the spot above his eye, the one that made him go boneless with pleasure, his rumble vibrating through the dock planks. "Thursday, I'm going to tell them. All of them. That I want this. Want them." I leaned back, staring up at the morning sky through the cypress branches, my heart full tobursting. "Courting, maybe bonding at the end... a real pack." I murmured, more to myself than to him.
Gumbo blinked slowly, which I chose to interpret as agreement.
"You'll have to share me." I warned him, running my hand along his rough, scaled back as he settled deeper into the warm wood. "Think you can handle that?" I asked, smiling when he huffed in response.
He huffed once and closed his eyes, settling deeper into the warm wood of the dock. I smiled and closed my eyes too, letting the Louisiana sun warm my face, the taste of Silas still on my lips, the weight of his scent wrapped around me like a promise.
Thursday couldn't come fast enough.
Chapter Twenty-One
Artemis
The weather report crackled through my old radio at six in the morning, pulling me from a fitful sleep filled with dreams of pale gray eyes and promises whispered against my throat.
"...Tropical Storm Delilah upgraded to Category Two overnight. Expected to make landfall late Friday. Residents in low-lying areas are advised to prepare for significant flooding. Evacuation routes..."
I sat up in my nest, blinking at the radio on my nightstand like it had personally betrayed me. Friday. The storm was hitting Friday night, which meant Thursday's pack meeting was about to get very complicated.
My phone buzzed before I could fully process the implications.
Harper: Storm coming. I'll be there by nine. Don't argue.
Remy: Heard about Delilah, chere. On my way with supplies. Don't tell me no.
Silas: Already checked your property line. Weak spots on the north fence. I'll handle it.
Three texts, three Alphas, three different approaches to the same problem. I shouldn't have found it as endearing as I did.
I padded out onto the porch with my coffee, watching the sky with new eyes. The morning looked deceptively peaceful—blue sky, gentle breeze, birds singing in the cypress trees. The kind of Louisiana morning that made you forget nature could turn vicious without warning. Gumbo was already on the dock, but something was off. Instead of his usual lazy sprawl, he was pacing—all nine feet of him moving in restless circles, his massive head swinging toward the horizon every few seconds.
"You feel it too, huh?" I called out to him, wrapping my hands around my mug as I watched his agitated movements. "Storm's coming."
He rumbled low in his throat, a sound I'd learned to read over the years. This wasn't his contented rumble or his warning rumble. This was unease. Gumbo had weathered dozens of storms in his fifteen years, and he always knew when the bad ones were coming.
"Yeah." I took a long sip of coffee, the bitter warmth grounding me as I mentally cataloged what needed to be done. "That's what I thought." I murmured, watching his massive tail swish against the dock planks.
I spent the next two hours doing what I could on my own—hauling the porch furniture inside, securing loose items in the yard, checking my emergency supplies. Marguerite had taught me well. Living in the bayou meant respecting the weather, and respecting the weather meant being prepared.
Harper's truck rumbled down the dirt road at eight forty-seven—early, because of course he was. I watched from the porch as he climbed out, already assessing my property with those sharp dark eyes, his massive frame silhouetted against themorning light. The truck bed was loaded with lumber, tools, and what looked like several gas cans.
"You're early." I set down my hammer, wiping sweat from my forehead as he approached, his boots heavy on the dock boards.
"Storm's moving faster than they predicted." Harper said it simply, already scanning my cabin with that intense focus, cataloging every potential weakness. "Checked the radar on the way. We've got less time than they're saying." He added, his jaw tight with concern he was trying not to show.
"Good morning to you too, big guy." I crossed my arms, fighting a smile at his single-minded intensity. "Coffee's on if you want some before you start rearranging my life." I offered, gesturing toward the cabin.
Harper paused, something softening in his expression as he finally looked at me—really looked, not just assessed. "Morning." He rumbled, closing the distance between us to press a kiss to my forehead, his hand cupping the back of my head with a gentleness that still surprised me. "You okay?" He asked, pulling back just enough to search my face.
"I'm fine. Been through plenty of storms." I leaned into his touch, letting myself have this moment of softness before the work began. "Though I have a feeling I'm about to have a lot of help whether I want it or not." I said dryly.
The corner of Harper's mouth twitched. "You want it." He said with quiet certainty, then turned toward his truck. "I'll start on the windows. Boards need to go up before the wind picks up." He was already moving, already working, already providing in the only language he truly spoke.
