The whiskey was good—smooth and warming, spreading heat through my chest with each sip. The conversation flowed easier with alcohol loosening tongues, touching on topics we'd danced around before. Remy talked about his family, the pressure of being the youngest son, the way his brothers had always outshone him in traditional ways. Harper spoke about Claire—haltingly, painfully, but he spoke. Silas even shared a piece of his time overseas, a story about a stray dog that had adopted his unit, had been their mascot until the day it wasn't.
"He died saving us." Silas said quietly, staring into his whiskey like he could find answers in its depths. "IED. He ran toward it instead of away. Gave us the warning we needed to take cover." He paused, his scarred hands tight around his cup. "Named my first rescue after him. A shepherd mix, half-starved, found him in a ditch outside Baton Rouge." He finished, his voice rough with old grief.
"What was the dog's name?" I asked softly, reaching across the circle to touch his knee, needing him to know he wasn't alone in this.
"Sergeant." Silas looked up, and there was something raw in his expression, something exposed and vulnerable. "We called him Sergeant. Because he was braver than any officer we'd ever served under." He covered my hand with his, squeezing once before letting go.
The night wound down slowly, the whiskey warming our blood, the rain pattering gently against the windows. At some point, we'd all migrated closer together, the boundaries between us blurring in the candlelight. Remy was pressed against my side, his head on my shoulder. Harper sat behind me, his back against the couch, close enough that I could lean into him if I wanted. Silas had finally joined the huddle, sitting across from us but near enough that our knees touched in the middle.
"Thursday." Remy murmured sleepily, his voice soft against my shoulder. "We were supposed to have our pack meeting on Thursday." He reminded us, his words slightly slurred from the whiskey.
"Storm had other plans." Harper's voice rumbled from behind me, his breath stirring my hair. "Guess we're having it now instead." He observed, his hand finding my hip and resting there like it had always belonged.
"Are we?" I asked, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment, the significance of what we were all dancing around. "Having the meeting, I mean?" I clarified, my heart starting to beat faster.
"Think we've been having it all day." Silas said, his gaze clear despite the alcohol, cutting through to the heart of things the way he always did. "All week, really. Every meal we've shared. Every conversation. Every time we chose to be here instead of somewhere else." He gestured around the circle with his cup. "This is what pack looks like, Artemis. What it feels like. We've already started building it." He said quietly.
"He's right." Harper's arm tightened around me, pulling me more firmly against his chest. "This isn't a negotiation. It's a recognition. Of what's already true." He rumbled, his voice low and certain against my ear.
"What's already true." I repeated softly, looking around at the three of them—Harper's steady darkness, Remy's bright warmth, Silas's sharp edges. "And what's that?" I asked, needing to hear them say it.
"That we're yours." Remy lifted his head from my shoulder, his expression serious for once, all the playfulness stripped away. "That we've been yours since the moment we met you, even if we didn't know it then." He reached up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "That we're not goinganywhere. Not ever. Unless you send us away." He vowed, his voice rough with feeling.
"I'm not sending anyone away." I felt tears threatening and didn't bother fighting them this time. "I'm keeping all of you. If you'll let me." I whispered, my voice breaking on the last word.
"Let you?" Harper's laugh was low and disbelieving, his arms tightening around me. "Artemis, we've been waiting for you to keep us. Hoping you would. Terrified you wouldn't." He pressed his face into my hair, inhaling deeply. "You're not getting rid of us now. Not ever." He growled softly.
"Pack." Silas said, the single word carrying the weight of a vow. "That's what we are. What we're choosing to be." He reached into the circle, offering his hand palm-up—an invitation, a promise. "If you'll have us." He added, vulnerability written across features that rarely showed anything at all.
I placed my hand in his without hesitation. Remy's hand covered mine. Harper's covered them both. Four hands, stacked together in the candlelight, while the rain fell softly outside and a nine-foot alligator watched from his corner with ancient, approving eyes.
"Pack." I agreed, the word feeling like a key turning in a lock, like a door opening to a room I hadn't known existed. "We're pack."
The cabin settled around us, cozy and secure, filled with the smell of gumbo and whiskey and the mingled scents of three Alphas who had somehow become home.
Outside, the flood waters continued to rise. But inside, something had finally fallen into place.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Artemis
Iwoke tangled in bodies.
Not just blankets—though there were plenty of those—but the solid heat of three Alphas pressed close. Sometime during the night, our careful sleeping arrangement had dissolved into a mess of limbs and steady breathing. Remy was curled against my back, one arm slung over my waist, his exhales tickling the sensitive skin at my nape. Harper had migrated from his spot by the door to the floor beside the couch, close enough that my hand had found his shoulder in sleep and stayed there, my fingers curled into the worn cotton of his shirt. The cabin smelled like all of us now—moonshine and honey and rain layered over my own apple cider scent until it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began.
Silas was already awake, watching me from across the room with those storm-colored eyes, a cup of coffee cradled in his scarred hands. Morning light caught the silver line of the scar down his ribs where his shirt had ridden up, a reminder of violence survived.
"Morning." He kept his voice low, the single word rough with what might have been contentment, though his face gave nothing away. "Water's down six inches." He nodded toward the window where pale light filtered through the cracks in the boards, dust motes dancing in the narrow beams that sliced across the shadowed room.
"Six inches." I blinked away the fog of dreams, careful not to move too much and disturb the cocoon of Alpha warmth surrounding me. My voice came out sleep-rough, barely above a whisper. "That's progress."
"Another day, maybe two." Silas took a slow sip from his cup, steam curling up past his sharp cheekbones, his attention never leaving my face like he was cataloging every detail of me in the early morning light. "Roads should be passable by tomorrow afternoon, if the weather holds." A muscle ticked in his jaw—the only hint that the words cost him anything, that the idea of leaving bothered him as much as it bothered me.
I should have felt relief. Should have been eager to return to normal life, to my routines, to the comfortable solitude I'd built around myself. Instead, reluctance settled heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs like a physical weight.
"Already made a pot." Silas tilted his head toward the kitchen, reading me too easily, seeing past whatever mask I thought I was wearing. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Remy's going to need it when he wakes up. He talks in his sleep."
"What did he say?" I fought a smile, genuinely curious, watching Silas's pale eyes flicker with something that might have been amusement—rare enough that I wanted to hold onto it.
