"You love it." He started up the steps, a wicked gleam in his amber eyes, and I scrambled backward.
"Don't you dare—Remy, you're soaking wet, don't you DARE—" He caught me around the waist, pulling me against hissodden chest, smearing mud across my shirt. I shrieked, still giggling, beating at his shoulders while he beamed down at me with pure, uncomplicated joy.
"Worth it," he declared, his voice warm and sure, and kissed me—quick and sweet, tasting like bayou water and happiness. When he pulled back, I was still laughing, my hands fisted in his wet shirt, my heart so full it hurt. Behind him, Harper was watching with soft eyes, and Silas had that almost-smile that meant he was genuinely happy.
My pack. My ridiculous, wonderful pack.
"Go shower," I ordered, pushing him back with both hands, my palms coming away muddy. "You smell like swamp."
"Your swamp," he pointed out, backing toward the door with a grin that promised more mischief. "Our swamp. Pack territory. I'm just marking it with my scent."
"That's not how scent-marking works!" I called after him, but I was laughing again.
"It is now!" His voice floated back, followed by the sound of his squelching boots on the hardwood. He disappeared inside, trailing muddy footprints and laughter. I watched him go, still smiling so hard my face ached.
Harper came up beside me, his hand settling warm and solid on my lower back, his thumb tracing small circles through my shirt. "He's going to keep trying until that gator loves him."
"I know." I leaned into his touch, watching the spot where Gumbo had disappeared into the cypress shadows. "That's why I love him."
Harper's arm tightened around me. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. In the shadows, I could have sworn I saw a pair of yellow eyes watching. Judging. Maybe—just maybe—approving.
Progress, indeed.
Chapter Thirty
Harper
The dock was in worse shape than I'd thought. Storm damage had warped three of the main planks and knocked two support posts loose from their moorings. The whole structure listed to the left now, groaning with every shift of the water. Not dangerous yet, but it would be soon if someone didn't fix it.
I'd shown up with my tools around two, figuring I'd get a few hours of work in before dinner. Found Silas already there, sleeves rolled up, prying loose boards with a crowbar like he'd had the same idea. We didn't say anything. Didn't need to. He just nodded once, and I set down my toolbox and got to work.
That was an hour ago. We'd barely exchanged ten words since, and somehow that felt exactly right.
I pulled another warped plank free, tossing it onto the growing pile of debris on the bank. The wood was soft with rot in places—should have been replaced years ago, probably. Marguerite had kept this place running on sheer willpower and duct tape. Now it was Artemis's problem.
Our problem, I corrected myself. Pack territory now.
Silas was waist-deep in the water, resetting one of the support posts, his scarred hands working the wood into place with practiced efficiency. He moved like a man who'd done hard labor before—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Military training, same as me. You learned to conserve energy when you didn't know when you'd need it next.
I'd done eight years in the Marines. He'd done twelve in Army Special Ops, from what Remy had mentioned. Different branches, different wars, but the same bone-deep understanding of what it meant to serve. To sacrifice. To lose people you'd sworn to protect.
"Post's solid." He tested the beam with his weight, water dripping from his forearms, knuckles white where they gripped the wood. "Need to anchor it better, though. Got any concrete mix?"
"In the truck." I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm, already turning toward the bank. "I'll grab it."
The walk to my truck gave me a moment to breathe. The afternoon heat was thick and heavy, the kind that settled into your bones and made every movement feel like wading through honey. Cicadas droned in the cypress trees. Somewhere in the water, Gumbo was watching—I could feel those ancient eyes tracking my movements, judging whether I belonged here.
I grabbed the bag of quick-set concrete and a bucket, then paused by the tailgate. Through the trees, I could see Silas still working, his focus absolute, that intensity he brought to everything evident in every line of his body. The man barely spoke, barely smiled, barely showed any emotion at all. But he'd shown up today without being asked, same as me.
Pack instinct. Protecting what was ours.
By the time I got back, Silas had the post braced and was waiting. We mixed the concrete in silence, the scrape of thetrowel and splash of water the only sounds between us. It was comfortable, this quiet. Not awkward, not strained. Just two men who didn't need to fill the air with noise.
I thought about Claire, suddenly. She'd hated silence—always needed music playing, conversation flowing, noise to fill the empty spaces. Used to tease me about being "the strong silent type" like it was a character flaw she was determined to fix.
"You're thinking about someone." Silas's voice was low, unintrusive, his hands still working the concrete around the post, not looking at me.
I looked up, startled by how easily he'd read me. "That obvious?"
