The growl came from all three of us this time, a low harmonic rumble that seemed to vibrate through the ground itself. Gumbo, still pacing us in the water, made a sound of his own—a deep, prehistoric hiss that said he understood threat even if he didn't understand commerce.
"We should check the rest." Silas straightened, his hand flexing on the machete at his belt. "Make sure there's nothing closer to the cabin."
We circled the entire property over the next three hours. Found two more cameras, both positioned to watch the main approach to her home. Found tire tracks near the back accessroad—fresh, probably from the day before the storm hit. Found a torn piece of orange surveyor tape caught on a branch near her garden.
By the time we finished, my shirt was soaked through with sweat and their scents—pine and whiskey and the sharp ozonic edge I was coming to recognize as Silas. We'd been walking close, moving together, our scents mingling in that unconscious way packs did when they worked as a unit.
Pack scent. Forming whether we'd chosen it or not.
"We need to tell her." Remy wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of mud across his brow. "She's going to be pissed."
"Good." The word came out before I could think about it. "She should be pissed. They're treating her like prey."
"She's not prey." Silas's voice was quiet, but there was steel underneath. "She's never been prey."
No. She wasn't. She was an Omega who'd built a life alone in the swamp, who'd raised a nine-foot alligator, who'd stared down three Alphas and demanded terms instead of submission. Artemis Bordeaux was a lot of things, but prey wasn't one of them.
"Tomorrow." I made the decision without consulting them, and neither argued. "We tell her tomorrow, when we're all there for dinner. Show her the photos, explain what we found. Let her decide how she wants to handle it."
"If she decides to handle it alone?" Remy asked, his fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh.
"Then we let her." The words hurt to say, but I said them anyway. "It's her land. Her choice. We're not here to take that from her." Silas made a sound that might have been agreement. Remy just nodded, respect flickering across his features—or maybe understanding.
We walked back to the vehicles in silence, Gumbo still tracking us in the water. The big gator had caught a nutria at some point during our patrol—I'd heard the splash and the brief, violent struggle—and now he swam with the lazy contentment of a predator who'd fed well.
At the trucks, we paused. Three Alphas standing in the dappled shade of a cypress tree, covered in mud and sweat and each other's scents, none of us quite sure how to end this.
"Same time tomorrow?" Remy's smile was back, but it was different now. Less performance, more genuine. "I'll bring whiskey. We can tell her over drinks."
"I'll bring the photos." Silas patted his pocket, where his phone held documentation of every camera, every stake, every sign of intrusion. "And a map of the placement patterns."
I looked at both of them—the pretty musician with grief in his eyes and the scarred soldier who spoke more to animals than people—and felt a piece slot into place in my chest. A piece that had been missing for a long time.
"I'll handle the talking." The words came out rough, but right. "If she's going to be pissed at anyone, it should be me."
Remy laughed, short and surprised. "Look at you, taking one for the team." He shook his head, curls falling across his forehead.
"Someone has to." I opened my truck door, then paused. "Remy. You good?"
He blinked, caught off guard by the question. For a moment, the mask slipped—I saw the exhaustion underneath, the weight of whatever he'd been carrying since Monday. Then he pulled himself together, that easy grin sliding back into place.
"Better than good, mon ami." But the way he said it was honest. "Getting there, anyway."
Silas just nodded at both of us, climbed into his truck, and drove away without another word. Remy followed on hismotorcycle, peeling out with more noise than necessary because that was apparently how he processed emotions.
I sat in my truck for a long moment, staring at Artemis's cabin in the distance. The windows caught the afternoon light, glowing warm and golden. Smoke rose from the chimney—she was home, probably brewing tea or reading those tarot cards she thought we didn't take seriously.
Tomorrow, I'd tell her that strangers were watching her. That the land her aunt had left her, the only home she'd ever felt safe in, was a target. That the three of us had walked her property without asking, claiming it with our presence and our scents because we couldn't stand the thought of her facing this alone.
She'd be furious.
I was counting on it.
I started the truck and headed home, Gumbo's yellow eyes tracking me from the water until I turned onto the main road and disappeared from his view.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Silas
