I drew, and turned it over.
The Star. A naked woman kneeling by a pool, pouring water from two vessels—one into the pool, one onto the land. Above her, eight stars shone in a dark sky.
"Hope." I breathed, tracing the image with my fingertip. "Healing. Renewal. It's one of the most positive cards in the deck."
"What does it mean?" His voice was rough, but curious.
"It means..." I looked up at him, at this scarred, beautiful man who'd carried so much for so long. "It means that healing is possible. That the worst is behind you. That there's hope for the future, even when you can't see it yet." I set the card downbetween us. "Marguerite would say the universe is telling you to have faith. To trust that things can get better."
He stared at the card for a long moment, his jaw working. Then he reached out and touched it, his scarred fingers gentle on the worn paper.
"I don't know if I believe in that stuff," he said finally. "But I want to."
"That's enough." I covered his hand with mine. "Wanting to believe is the first step." We stayed in the nest for another hour, tangled together in the morning light. I kept up a soft croon whenever I felt him tense, whenever the memories threatened to pull him back under. Gumbo watched from his corner, ancient and patient, his yellow eyes never leaving us.
Silas told me more about them—his unit. Martinez's terrible jokes. Rodriguez's obsession with hot sauce. Peters's dream of opening a bar when he got home. Jenkins's daughter, who was seven now and would never remember her father's voice.
And I listened. Didn't try to fix it, didn't offer empty platitudes. Just held him and listened and let him grieve for the first time in four years. By the time the sun had shifted to late morning, something had changed. Not fixed—grief like his didn't fix. But acknowledged. Shared. Carried by more than just one person.
For the first time since I'd met him, Silas looked like he believed he might deserve to be here. And slowly, slowly, I felt him start to believe that maybe surviving wasn't the same as betraying the people he'd lost.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Artemis
Wednesday was my regular tarot day at the café.
Every week, I set up my little table in the corner of Magnolia's—the coffee shop on Main Street that smelled like chicory and beignets—and spent a few hours reading cards for whoever wanted their fortune told. Mostly it was the same regulars: Miss Delphine wanting to know about her daughter's wedding, old Mr. Comeaux checking on his investments, teenage girls giggling over love readings. Easy money, good coffee, and a chance to feel connected to the community I'd called home for years.
Today had been busy. Three hours of readings, four cups of coffee, and one very grateful widow who'd cried when The Star came up in her spread. By the time I packed up my deck, I was ready for some fresh air.
Harper was at the distillery running the afternoon batch. Remy had the day off but was helping his cousin move furniture across town. Silas was checking on an injured stray dog someonehad found near the highway. We'd planned to meet up for dinner later, but I had a few hours to kill.
So I decided to browse.
Main Street in Belleau Bridge wasn't much—a handful of shops, the café, a bar, and the general store at the end of the block. The general store always had interesting things tucked in the corners: vintage jewelry, old books, the occasional antique that caught my eye. I'd found my favorite copper pot there, and the hand-painted tarot box that held my aunt’s deck.
The bell over the door jingled as I stepped inside. The smell hit me first—dust and old wood and something floral, like dried lavender. Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, stirring the warm air. The shop owner waved from behind the register where she was sorting through a box of estate jewelry.
"Afternoon, Artemis! Tarot day go well?" She called out, her reading glasses perched on her nose, silver hair pinned up in its usual neat bun.
"Real well, thanks." I smiled and headed toward the back, where the antiques were kept. That's when the trouble started.
"Well, now." The voice came from my left, smooth and slick as oil on water. "I don't think we've met."
I turned to find an Alpha leaning against a shelf of old records, arms crossed over his chest in a way that was probably meant to show off his biceps. He was handsome enough, I supposed—dark hair, sharp jaw, expensive boots that had never seen a day of real work. City Alpha playing country boy. Definitely not local—I knew everyone in Belleau Bridge, and I'd never seen this one before.
His scent hit me a second later. Leather and cedar and something cloying underneath, like cologne trying too hard. Nothing like the pine and honey and ozone I'd grown used to. Nothing like home.
"We haven't," I said, keeping my tone neutral as I turned back to browsing the shelves. "And I'm not looking to change that."
"Aw, don't be like that." He pushed off the shelf and moved closer, crowding into my space without invitation, his cologne overwhelming in the small gap between us. "Pretty little Omega like you shouldn't be wandering around all alone."
Pretty little Omega. I felt my jaw tighten, my spine going stiff. "I've been wandering around alone for years. I think I'll manage."
His smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened, showing too many teeth—the smile of a man who'd never been told no. "Feisty. I like that." He reached out to touch my arm, and I stepped back, putting distance between us.
"Not interested." I kept my tone flat, final, the kind of voice that usually made men back off.
