"Your scent changed." He kept his attention on the work, giving me space to answer or not, the trowel scraping against wood in a steady rhythm. I could have deflected. Changed the subject. But Silas made honesty feel safe—maybe because he carried his own wounds so visibly.
"Her name was Claire." The words came out rougher than I intended, scraping against old wounds. "My fiancée. We were together three years." I smoothed concrete around the base of the post, focusing on the work so I didn't have to meet his eyes. "She left. Said I was too closed off, too quiet. That she couldn't keep trying to reach someone who wouldn't let her in."
Silas nodded once, his pale gaze meeting mine for a brief moment before returning to his work. No platitudes. No "that's rough, man." Just acknowledgment.
"She wasn't wrong." I found myself saying, my hands moving on autopilot. "I didn't know how to give her what she needed. Didn't know how to let anyone in after—" I stopped, swallowed. After my parents. After Papaw and Mémère. After everyone I loved kept leaving, one way or another. "Artemis is different. She doesn't wait for me to open the door. She kicks it down."
"Good." The single word landed solid as a handshake, and he kept his focus on the trowel, smoothing concrete with practiced strokes. "You need that."
"Yeah." I looked out at the bayou, at the cypress shadows where our Omega's alligator lurked. "Took me a while to figure that out."
We worked in silence for a while longer, letting the concrete set. The dock was taking shape now—new planks replacing the rotted ones, the support posts solid and straight. It felt good to build. To repair what was broken.
Gumbo surfaced near the bank, his snout barely breaking the water. He watched us with those prehistoric eyes, unblinking, assessing. Then he turned and glided toward Silas, close enough that I tensed, my hand reaching for a tool I could use as a weapon if needed.
But Gumbo just... looked. Studied Silas with intelligence, nostrils flaring slightly. Then he slow-blinked—the same gesture I'd seen him give Artemis—and sank back beneath the surface.
The tension in Silas's shoulders eased, just slightly. "Acceptable," he murmured, barely audible over the lap of water against the pilings, a hint of satisfaction in the word.
"He slow-blinked at you." I set down my hammer, staring at the spot where Gumbo had vanished. "That's a big deal. He still hisses at Remy half the time."
"He's checking on her territory." Silas straightened, water streaming from his arms, his gaze tracking where Gumbo had disappeared. "Making sure we're doing it right."
I thought about that as we moved to the next section of dock. The gator wasn't just tolerating us—he was supervising. Making sure the males he'd reluctantly accepted were worthy of his Omega.
"The lawyer called back." I reached for a new plank, positioning it carefully. "While you were out here. Remy's contact in Baton Rouge."
Silas paused, crowbar in hand, his attention sharpening as he waited for me to continue.
"He's taking the case. Pro bono, mostly—says he's been looking for a reason to go after Crescent Holdings for years. Apparently they've pulled this same stunt on three other properties in the parish." I fitted the plank into place, checking the alignment with practiced ease. "We've got a meeting next week. All four of us."
"Good." Silas drove a nail home with a single, precise strike, the sound echoing across the water. "She shouldn't have to fight alone."
"She won't." The words came out fiercer than I intended, my grip tightening on the hammer. "Not anymore." Silas glanced at me, his expression unreadable, studying my face for a long moment. Then he nodded, just once, and went back to work.
The afternoon wore on. We replaced the last of the damaged planks, reinforced the railings, checked every joint and connection twice. Somewhere along the way, we'd fallen into a rhythm—I'd measure and cut, he'd position and nail. No discussion needed.
The sun dropped lower, painting the water in shades of amber and rose. Sweat soaked through my shirt, and my shoulders ached from the labor, but it was a good ache. The kind that came from honest work, from building rather than breaking.
By the time we finished, the dock was solid—better than it had been before the storm, probably. The kind of work that would last. I stood at the end, testing the boards with my weight. No give, no groan. Just solid wood under my feet and still water stretching out toward the cypress shadows.
Silas came to stand beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. We looked out at the bayou together, watching the last light turn the water to copper and gold.
"She picked well." The words came out low, almost soft, barely above the evening chorus of frogs beginning their nightly song. "Artemis. When she let us in."
I turned to look at him—this battle-worn, silent man who'd lost everyone he loved and somehow found the courage to try again. "She picked you too."
"Yeah." A flicker of pain crossed his features, or maybe hope—hard to tell in the fading light. "Still not sure I deserve it."
"None of us do." I thought about Claire, about the years I'd spent building walls around myself, convinced I didn't deserve another chance at happiness. "That's not really the point."
Silas was still for a long moment, the water lapping gently against the new pilings. Then he turned to face me fully, his expression serious, the fading light catching the silver lines that mapped his jaw and cheek.
"You're a good Alpha." The words were simple, direct, carrying weight I felt in my chest. "She's lucky to have you leading."
I swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. In all my years—in the Marines, at the distillery, in this town that had known me since birth—I couldn't remember anyone saying those words to me. Not like that. Not like they meant it down to the bone.
"You too." My voice came out rough, cracked at the edges, and I had to clear my throat before I could continue. "You're a good Alpha, Silas. I'm glad you're here. Glad you're..." I struggled for the right word, then gave up trying to be eloquent. "Glad you're pack."
