We cleaned the fish together, working side by side in comfortable silence. His scent had settled into warmth and steadiness, mixing with mine in that unconscious way that meant pack. Brotherhood.
By the time we sat down to eat—catfish fried crispy, cold beer, the houseboat rocking gently beneath us—I realized I couldn't remember the last time stillness had felt this easy.
"Remy." I tested his name, feeling how it fit in my mouth, rolling off my tongue like something I wanted to say again. No longer just a label for a rival but something warmer. Something that felt like the beginning of family.
"Yeah?" He looked up from his plate, fork halfway to his mouth, fireflies starting to blink in the darkness around us.
"You're not a disappointment." I kept eating, not looking at him, because this was hard enough to say without watching his reaction. The catfish was good—crispy skin, tender flesh, spicedjust right. "You're exactly what this pack needs." The pretty one. The one who made people laugh. The one who saw through everyone else's masks because he wore one himself. The one who'd lost a brother and kept going anyway, even when the grief threatened to swallow him whole.
The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, and I could feel his eyes on me. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick, roughened by emotion he wasn't bothering to hide.
"Back at you, Silas." He raised his beer, the bottle catching the last of the light, amber glass glowing like honey. His voice was thick, but his smile was real—no performance, no armor, just Remy. "Back at you."
We clinked bottles, the sound small and perfect in the darkness. The bayou hummed around us, alive with night sounds—frogs and insects and the distant splash of something hunting—and for the first time in years, I didn't feel alone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Artemis
Thursday evening, I changed my dress three times.
The cabin was clean. The table was set—candles lit, wine glasses polished, napkins folded the way Aunt Marguerite had taught me. Gumbo had claimed his corner spot by the fireplace, watching me pace with those ancient yellow eyes that saw too much.
"Stop judging me," I told him, smoothing down my dress for the fourth time. It was nothing special—simple green cotton that Aunt Marguerite had said brought out my eyes—but I wanted to look right. For them. "I'm allowed to be nervous."
Gumbo's tail twitched. Judgment.
The truth was, I wasn't nervous about dinner. I wasn't even nervous about them—not anymore. After the storm, after the conversations, after everything we'd shared, I knew where this was going. I wanted where this was going. I was nervous about what came after. About showing them the one part of myself I'd never shown anyone.
I'd spent the past two days rearranging my nest. Taking things out, putting them back, adding new items I'd collected without meaning to—Harper's flannel that still smelled like woodsmoke and pine, Remy's scarf that had somehow ended up in my laundry, a sock of Silas's that I'd found under the couch and absolutely should have returned but hadn't. The nest had been mine for years, a private sanctuary no one else had ever seen.
Tonight, I was going to show them.
The knock came at six sharp—Harper, of course, because he was constitutionally incapable of being late. I opened the door to find all three of them on my porch, and my breath caught at the sight. Harper in a clean button-down, the sleeves already rolled to his elbows, carrying a large covered pot that smelled incredible. Remy with his guitar case slung over his shoulder and a bottle of wine in his hand. Silas holding a cooler in one massive fist and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other.
"We brought offerings." Remy's smile was warm, genuine in a way it hadn't always been before. "Harper made the strategic decision that we should arrive together so you didn't have to answer the door three times."
"And I made dinner." Harper lifted the pot slightly, a hint of pride breaking through his usual reserve. "Papaw's venison stew. Figured you shouldn't have to cook for your own courting dinner."
"Tribute for the gatekeeper." Silas lifted the cooler, his scarred face almost smiling. "Fresh catfish. Caught them this morning."
Gumbo's head swiveled toward the cooler, nostrils flaring. His tail twitched—not judgment this time. Interest.
"Efficient," I managed, stepping back to let them in, my fingers gripping the doorframe harder than necessary. My heart was hammering against my ribs, and I could smell my ownnervousness in the air—that sharp citrus edge that always gave me away.
They filed in one by one, each pausing to navigate around Gumbo's corner with careful respect. Silas set the cooler down near the gator and opened it, revealing three beautiful catfish on ice. Gumbo's eyes tracked the movement, then slowly blinked—the closest thing to approval I'd ever seen him give an Alpha.
"I'll put this on the stove to warm." Harper moved toward the kitchen, comfortable in the space now, familiar. "Bread's in the truck—Remy, you mind?"
"On it." Remy set his guitar in the corner and disappeared back outside.
I took the flowers from Silas, our fingers brushing, his scent—ozone and pine—mixing with the wildflower sweetness. I buried my nose in the blooms to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks. "You didn't have to do all this."
"Courting dinner." Silas's voice was quiet but certain. "We wanted to."
Remy returned with a basket of fresh bread, still warm from the bakery, and the wine. "A Châteauneuf-du-Pape. My father's cellar. Don't tell him I took it." His amber eyes sparkled with mischief, but underneath I could see the same anticipation I felt. We all knew tonight was important.
Dinner was easier than I expected. Harper's stew was rich and hearty, the bread perfect for soaking up the gravy, and the wine was better than anything I'd ever tasted. But somewhere between the second helping and the third glass of wine, I noticed the looks they kept exchanging. Quick glances, silent communication.
