"You needed to save something." Harper said, and it wasn't a question. His deep brown gaze held an understanding that surprised me, a recognition of shared experience. Silas met his stare, and something passed between them—two men who had seen too much, done too much, and were still trying to find their way back to something that felt like whole.
"Yeah." Silas said simply, his voice rough with emotion he was clearly trying to contain. "I did."
Dinner was Marguerite's gumbo.
I hadn't planned to make it. Hadn't thought about it, really, until I found myself standing in the kitchen surrounded by the ingredients Remy had brought, my hands moving through the motions Marguerite had taught me years ago.
"What are you making?" Remy appeared at my elbow, his attention curious as he watched me chop vegetables with practiced efficiency.
"Gumbo." I didn't look up, focused on the rhythm of the knife, the familiar weight of it in my hand. "Marguerite's recipe. She taught me when I was sixteen, made me practice until I could do it in my sleep." I explained, my voice catching slightly on her name.
"Can I help?" Remy asked softly, his hand finding the small of my back in that way that had become familiar, grounding.
"You can make the roux." I finally looked up, meeting his whiskey-warm stare with a small smile. "If you think you can handle it. Marguerite always said the roux was the soul of the gumbo. Get it wrong, and the whole thing falls apart." I warned, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
Remy's expression turned serious, almost reverent. "Tell me what to do." He said, rolling up his sleeves and moving to stand beside me at the stove.
We worked together in comfortable silence, broken only by my quiet instructions and the sizzle of oil in the pan. Harper and Silas drifted in at some point, drawn by the smell of cooking food, and took up positions around the kitchen—Harper leaning against the counter, Silas perched on a stool near the window. Even Gumbo had dragged himself closer to the kitchen doorway, his nose twitching at the scent of simmering spices.
"She'd be proud of you." Remy said softly, stirring the roux with careful attention, watching it darken from blonde to amber to the deep brown of milk chocolate. "Marguerite. The way you've kept this place. The way you've kept going." He added, glancing at me with those warm golden eyes.
"Some days I'm not sure about that." I admitted, stirring the vegetables into the pot, watching them soften in the fragrant oil. "Some days I feel like I'm just... existing. Going through the motions of being alive without actually living." I confessed, the words coming easier in the warmth of the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of home.
"That's not true." Harper's voice came from behind me, rough and certain, and I turned to find him watching me with an intensity that made the air feel thin. "Existing isn't building a life in the bayou. Isn't taking in strays and reading cards and making a home out of nothing." He pushed off from the counter, closing the distance between us. "That's not existing, Artemis.That's surviving. That's being strong when you had every reason to break." He said firmly, his chocolate stare holding mine.
"He's right." Silas added from his spot by the window, his pewter gaze meeting mine when I looked at him. "You're more alive than most people I've met. More real." He paused, something vulnerable flickering across his sharp features. "It's one of the things that drew me to you. That realness." He admitted quietly.
I felt tears prick at my eyes and blinked them back, turning to the stove so they wouldn't see. "The gumbo's almost ready." I said, my voice thick. "Someone should set the table." I added, stirring the pot with more attention than it needed.
"I'll do it." Remy pressed a kiss to my temple before moving to gather plates, his hand trailing across my lower back as he passed.
We ate on the floor of the living room again, plates balanced on knees, Gumbo watching from his corner with what I chose to interpret as approval. The gumbo was good—not quite as good as Marguerite's, but close. Close enough that it felt like she was there with us, blessing this strange little gathering with her presence.
"This is incredible." Harper said around a mouthful, all his usual reserve abandoned in the face of good food. "You made this?" He asked, looking at me with something like awe softening his features.
"Remy helped." I nodded toward the other Alpha, who was already on his second bowl and showing no signs of slowing down. "He made the roux." I added, smiling at the memory of their careful collaboration.
"The roux is the soul of the gumbo." Remy quoted, grinning at me with rice stuck to his chin. "Your aunt was a wise woman." He said, raising his bowl in a toast.
"She was." I agreed, warmth settling in my chest despite the ache of loss. "She really was."
After dinner, we gathered around the candlelight again, the cabin close with the smell of gumbo and the sound of rain starting up outside—gentler this time, not the fury of the storm but the soft patter of a Louisiana drizzle.
"Whiskey?" Remy produced a bottle from somewhere, waggling it enticingly as he looked around the circle. "I brought the good stuff. Seemed like we might need it." He said, already pouring generous measures into mismatched cups.
"You brought whiskey to a hurricane." Harper observed, accepting a cup with something that might have been a smile tugging at his stern mouth.
"I brought whiskey to a potential disaster." Remy corrected, pressing a cup into my hands with a wink. "There's a difference." He insisted, settling onto the floor beside me with his own cup.
"Is there?" Silas asked, accepting his whiskey with a nod of thanks, his attention curious despite his flat tone.
"Absolutely." Remy took a long sip, humming in appreciation at the burn. "Hurricanes are forces of nature. Disasters are what happens when you're not prepared." He gestured around the candlelit cabin with his cup. "We were prepared. So this is just... an adventure. A very wet, very inconvenient adventure." He reasoned, mischief dancing in his expression.
I laughed, leaning into his shoulder, feeling Harper's warmth on my other side where he'd settled close enough that our knees touched. Silas sat across from us, but he'd moved closer as the evening wore on, drawn into the circle by degrees.
"To adventures." I raised my cup, watching the candlelight dance in the amber liquid. "And to the people who make them bearable." I added, meeting each of their gazes in turn.
"To adventures." They echoed, glasses raised, and we drank.
