Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Artemis
The hawk was dying.
I found her at the edge of my property, tangled in a fishing line that some careless tourist had left behind. Her wing was bent at a wrong angle, feathers matted with blood, and when I approached, she fixed me with one golden eye full of fury and fear.
"Easy, sweetheart." I crouched down slowly, keeping my movements deliberate and calm. "I'm not going to hurt you." I pulled off my flannel shirt, leaving me in just my tank top, and used it to carefully wrap around her body, pinning those dangerous talons.
She screamed at me—a raw, ragged sound that made my heart clench.
"I know." I gathered her against my chest, feeling her rapid heartbeat through the fabric. "I know it hurts. But I'm going to help you, okay? I know someone who can fix this." I stood carefully, cradling her like something precious.
Gumbo watched from the shallows as I carried her toward my truck, his amber eyes tracking the bundle in my arms with predatory interest.
"Don't even think about it." I shot him a warning look as I passed. "She's not food." I climbed into the truck one-handed, settling the hawk on the passenger seat.
The drive to Boudreaux Wildlife Rehabilitation took about thirty minutes.
I'd never been there myself, but everyone in the parish knew about it—a sprawling property on the edge of the preserve where injured animals got patched up and released back into the wild.
Run by some recluse who'd moved down from up north a few years back.
Ex-military, people said. Keeps to himself. Doesn't talk much.
Another quiet Alpha with secrets. Just what I needed.
The property announced itself with a hand-carved wooden sign that read BOUDREAUX WILDLIFE REHABILITATION in letters that looked like they'd been burned into the wood. I turned down the gravel drive, my truck rattling over potholes, and the hawk made a distressed sound from beside me.
"Almost there." I reached over to steady her, keeping one hand on the wheel. "Just hold on a little longer." I guided the truck around a bend in the road.
The rehabilitation center was bigger than I'd expected.
A main building that looked like it had once been a farmhouse, weathered but well-maintained.
Behind it, I could see a series of enclosures—large aviaries, fenced areas, what looked like a small pond.
The sounds of animals drifted through my open window: birds calling, something splashing, the distant bark of what might have been a fox.
I parked near the main building and cut the engine, gathering the hawk carefully in my arms. She'd gone still during the drive—either from shock or exhaustion—and I could feel her heartbeat slowing against my chest. Not a good sign.
"Hello?" I called out as I approached the building, looking for any sign of life. "Anyone here? I've got an injured hawk." I climbed the porch steps, scanning for a doorbell or knocker.
No answer. The front door stood slightly ajar, but I wasn't about to walk into a stranger's home uninvited.
I was about to call out again when I felt it.
Someone was watching me.
The sensation prickled across my skin like static electricity, raising the fine hairs on my arms. I turned slowly, scanning the tree line, the enclosures, the shadows between buildings.
Nothing. No one visible. The feeling persisted—that weight of attention, heavy and focused. Like being watched through a rifle scope.
"I know you're there." I kept my voice steady, refusing to show the unease crawling up my spine. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need help with this hawk." I held up the bundle in my arms as evidence.
Silence stretched for one beat, two, three.
Then a man stepped out of the shadows beside the aviary like he'd been part of them all along.
My breath caught.
He moved like smoke—fluid and silent, each step deliberate and controlled.
Tall, but not massive like Harper. Lean muscle built for speed rather than power, visible through the thin fabric of his worn gray t-shirt.
Dark hair cropped military-short, a few days of stubble shadowing a jaw that could cut glass.
Skin tan from hours in the sun, hands scarred and capable.
It was his eyes that stopped me cold.
Pale gray, almost silver in the afternoon light. Sharp and assessing, taking in every detail with an intensity that felt almost predatory. They swept over me once, twice, cataloging and dismissing threats with the efficiency of someone who'd been trained to spot danger.
His scent hit me a moment later—rain and wet moss, like the bayou after a storm. Ozone, sharp and electric. And underneath it all, something wild and feral that made my hindbrain sit up and pay attention.
Alpha. But different from Harper's quiet loneliness or Remy's honeyed charm. This one felt dangerous. Controlled, yes, but dangerous all the same.
"What happened to her." It wasn't a question. His voice was rough, like he didn't use it often, each word clipped and precise.
"Fishing line." I held out the hawk, still wrapped in my flannel. "Found her at the edge of my property this morning. Wing's broken, I think. She's lost a lot of blood." I watched his face for any reaction, any softening.
He closed the distance between us in three long strides, his movements silent on the gravel.
Up close, I could see more details—a scar that ran from his left temple into his hairline, faded but still visible.
The slight tension in his shoulders, like he was always ready to move.
The way his eyes never quite settled, constantly scanning even as he reached for the hawk.
"Give her to me." He held out his hands, and I noticed the calluses on his palms, the old burns on his forearms. Working hands. Fighter's hands.
"Carefully." I transferred the bundle into his arms, watching the way he cradled her—firm but gentle, supporting the broken wing without jostling it. "She's scared." I stepped back to give him room.
"She's dying." He said it flatly, without emotion, already turning toward the main building. "Come." He walked away without checking to see if I'd follow.
I followed.
Inside, the building was organized chaos—shelves of medical supplies, cages of various sizes, the smell of antiseptic and animal musk. He led me through to a back room that was clearly set up as a veterinary station: a steel examination table, bright overhead lights, drawers full of instruments.
He set the hawk down on the table and began unwrapping my flannel with quick, efficient movements. The bird stirred weakly, trying to snap at his fingers, and he dodged without even looking.
"Hold her head." He jerked his chin toward the hawk, already pulling on surgical gloves. "Keep her still." He opened a drawer and pulled out scissors, antiseptic, a syringe.
"I've never—" I started.
"You found her." He cut me off, his voice brooking no argument. "You brought her here. Now help." He loaded the syringe with something from a small vial.
I moved to the head of the table and carefully placed my hands on either side of the hawk's skull, holding her steady while he injected something into her breast. She went limp almost immediately, her golden eye sliding closed.
"Sedative." He answered my unspoken question, already cutting away the tangled fishing line with precise, careful movements. "She won't feel this." He worked in silence for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration.
I watched him work. His hands were steady, methodical, each movement purposeful. No wasted energy. No hesitation. He cleaned the wounds, set the wing with a splint, applied bandages with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
"You're good at this." I kept my voice quiet, not wanting to break his concentration.
"Practice." He didn't look up, his attention fixed on his patient.
"Lots of practice." He secured the final bandage and stepped back, surveying his work.
The hawk lay still on the table, her chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.
The wing was immobilized, the wounds cleaned and dressed.
She looked... peaceful. For the first time since I'd found her.
"Will she make it?" I asked, finally releasing my hold on her head. He was quiet for a long moment, those silver eyes fixed on the unconscious bird.
"Maybe." He stripped off his gloves and tossed them in a bin. "Fifty-fifty. Depends on how much blood she lost. Whether infection sets in." He moved to a sink and began washing his hands. "Come back in a week. I'll know more then." He dried his hands on a worn towel, still not looking at me.
"Thank you." I meant it. "I didn't know what else to do. She was suffering." I picked up my bloodstained flannel, folding it absently.
He turned then, those pale eyes fixing on me with unsettling intensity.
"Most people would have left her." His voice was quiet, assessing. "Let nature take its course. Why didn't you?" He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.
The question caught me off guard. I thought about it for a moment, really thought about it.
"Because she was fighting." I met his gaze steadily, refusing to look away.
"Even tangled up and bleeding, she was still trying to survive.
Still had that fire in her eye." I shrugged, tucking the ruined flannel under my arm.
"Seemed wrong to let that go to waste." I held his stare, letting him see I meant every word.
Something flickered in those silver depths. Not warmth, exactly—he didn't seem like the type for warmth—but something close to respect.
"You live on the bayou." Another non-question. "The Delacroix property." He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
"News travels fast." I raised an eyebrow, unsurprised that he knew. "The witch who talks to her alligator. I've heard the stories." I let a dry smile curl my lips.
"Not a witch." He shook his head once, a small movement. "Just different. Don't fit in the boxes people try to put you in." His voice had softened slightly, losing some of its military crispness.
I went still. Something in the way he said it—not an accusation, not a judgment. Just an observation. Like recognizing something familiar.
"Neither do you." The words came out before I could stop them. "Not really." I watched his reaction carefully. His jaw tightened. Those pale eyes flickered with something—surprise, maybe, or discomfort at being seen so clearly.
"No." He admitted after a long pause, his voice barely above a murmur. "I don't." He pushed off from the counter, moving toward the door like the conversation had gone somewhere he hadn't intended.
"I'm Artemis." I offered, not moving to follow him yet. "In case you were wondering." I stayed where I was, giving him space. He paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame. Didn't turn around.
"Silas." The name came out rough, reluctant, like he wasn't used to giving it. "Silas Boudreaux." He stood there for a moment, tension visible in the line of his shoulders.
"Thank you, Silas." I let his name roll off my tongue, tasting it.
"For helping her. For not turning me away.
" I took a step toward the door. He did turn then, just enough to look at me over his shoulder.
Those silver eyes held something complicated—wariness and curiosity and something else I couldn't quite name.
"One week." He said it like an order. "Come back in one week. I'll have an update." He held my gaze for one heartbeat, two.
"I will." I promised, meaning it. He nodded once, sharp and brief, then disappeared through the doorway. I heard his footsteps moving away—or tried to. They were nearly silent, even on the old wooden floors.
I stood alone in the makeshift veterinary room, the sedated hawk breathing softly on the table, my bloodstained shirt in my hands, and thought about pale gray eyes and the way he'd said don't fit in the boxes people try to put you in.
Like he understood. Like he knew what it was like to be something that didn't have a name.
Outside, the afternoon sun was warm on my face. I climbed into my truck and sat for a moment, processing. The scent of rain and ozone still clung to my skin, mixing with the copper smell of blood and the green smell of the bayou.
Three Alphas in two weeks. One silent and lonely, one charming and broken, and now one... what? Dangerous? Watchful? Feral in a way the other two weren't?
"Getting crowded around here." I muttered to myself, starting the engine. "The universe is trying to tell me something." I pulled out of the drive, gravel crunching under my tires.
Gumbo was waiting for me when I got home, floating in the shallows like the judgmental log he was.
"I know that look." I climbed out of the truck and walked down to the dock, sitting on the edge and letting my feet dangle over the water. "You think I'm getting into trouble." I watched the sunlight play across his scales.
He blinked slowly, his tail swishing through the water.
"You're probably right." I leaned back on my hands, staring up at the Spanish moss swaying in the breeze. "Three Alphas, Gumbo. Three." I shook my head, almost laughing at the absurdity.
One who smelled like moonshine and watched me like I was something precious. One who smelled like honey and hid his broken heart behind a beautiful smile. And now one who smelled like rain and looked at me like he was trying to decide if I was prey or predator.
"I need to check on a hawk in a week." I told Gumbo, pushing myself to my feet. "At the wildlife place, out by the preserve. The guy who runs it is..." I trailed off, searching for the right word. "Interesting." I headed up the dock toward the cabin.
Gumbo made a low rumbling sound that definitely sounded like skepticism.
"Shut up." I called over my shoulder, but I was smiling. "You don't even know him." I climbed the porch steps. I kept thinking about silver eyes and silent footsteps and the way Silas Boudreaux had looked at me like I was something he couldn't quite figure out.
Like maybe he wanted to.