Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Artemis
The hawk survived.
I'd gone back to Silas's place exactly one week after I'd brought her in, just like he'd ordered. Found him in one of the aviaries, the hawk perched on his gloved arm, her wing still splinted but her golden eye bright and fierce.
"She's a fighter." He'd said it without looking at me, his attention fixed on the bird. "Infection tried to set in. She fought it off." He'd stroked one finger down her chest feathers, and she'd allowed it—which told me more about their relationship than any words could.
"When can she fly again?" I'd stepped closer, watching the way she tracked my movement. Still wild. Still dangerous. Good.
"Six weeks. Maybe eight." He'd finally turned those silver eyes on me, something unreadable in their depths. "You can visit. If you want." The words had come out stilted, like he wasn't used to offering invitations.
"I'd like that." I'd meant it, and something in my voice must have shown it because his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
That had been three weeks ago. I'd been back twice since then—once to check on the hawk, once because I'd found an injured possum on the road and didn't know what else to do with it.
Both times, Silas had been distant but not unwelcoming.
We'd worked in silence, him teaching me how to hold animals for treatment, me learning the rhythm of his quiet world.
I hadn't mentioned the way I'd caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking.
The way his scent seemed to linger on my clothes long after I left.
Some things were better left unacknowledged. For now.
The first time I noticed I was being watched, I was at the general store picking up supplies.
It was a nothing errand—coffee, rice, the good hot sauce they kept behind the counter.
I was comparing two brands of chicory when the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
I didn't turn around. Just shifted my weight, angling my body so I could see the front window in my peripheral vision.
A truck was parked across the street. Dark blue, mud-splattered, familiar.
I'd seen it at the Fontenot Distillery, parked beside the barn.
Harper.
I finished my shopping without acknowledging him, chatting with old Mrs. Trix about the weather and her grandchildren while she rang me up. When I walked outside, the truck was gone.
The second time, I was at the farmer's market in town.
Saturday morning, the square packed with vendors selling produce and crafts and food that made my stomach growl.
I was haggling with a woman over the price of fresh okra when I heard it—a guitar, somewhere nearby, playing a familiar melody.
I looked up. Remy was set up near the fountain, his guitar case open for tips, that honeyed voice drawing a crowd.
He wasn't looking at me. Was very pointedly not looking at me, in fact, his attention fixed on a pretty brunette in the front row.
I bought my okra and walked past without stopping. Felt his eyes follow me the entire way.
The third time, I was checking on the hawk. Silas and I had just finished changing her bandages—she was healing well, the wing mending straight and strong—when I'd glanced out the window and seen a figure at the edge of the tree line. Tall. Broad. Watching.
"You have a visitor." I'd said it casually, nodding toward the window.
Silas had looked, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Fontenot." The name came out flat, neither friendly nor hostile. "He comes by sometimes. Drops off injured animals he finds on his property." He'd turned back to the hawk, dismissing the subject.
I hadn't pushed. Hadn't mentioned that Harper Fontenot had no reason to be lurking at the tree line unless he was watching something. Or someone.
After that, I started paying attention. Harper's truck, parked outside the diner when I went in for breakfast. Gone by the time I came out.
Remy, playing a gig at The Rusty Hook on a night I happened to be doing readings there.
Pure coincidence, according to the bartender.
Remy always played Fridays. Except I'd been doing readings on Thursdays for months.
This was my first Friday gig since the bachelorette party.
Silas, appearing at the edge of my property one morning when I was feeding Gumbo.
Just standing there at the tree line, still as stone, watching.
When I'd raised my hand in greeting, he'd nodded once and melted back into the shadows like he'd never been there at all.
"They're circling." I told Gumbo, tossing him a fish. "All three of them. Like sharks who smell blood in the water." I threw another fish, watching his jaws snap shut.
Gumbo blinked at me, unimpressed.
"I'm not blood." I clarified, sitting down on the dock and dangling my feet over the water. "I'm not prey. I just..." I trailed off, staring out at the cypress trees draped in moss. I didn't know what I was. That was the problem.
The run-ins kept happening. Small moments that could have been coincidence if there weren't so damn many of them.
I went to the library to return some books and found Harper in the parking lot, leaning against his truck like he'd been waiting.
He'd straightened when he saw me, opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then just nodded and drove away.
I stopped at the gas station and Remy was there, filling up a motorcycle I'd never seen him ride.
He'd grinned when he saw me—that practiced, charming grin—but something underneath it had been different. Hungrier.
"Chere." He'd tipped an imaginary hat, his amber eyes warm. "Fancy meeting you here." He'd leaned against the pump, all easy confidence and golden curls.
"Is it?" I'd raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide my skepticism. "A coincidence, I mean." I'd kept my voice dry, unimpressed. His grin had faltered, just for a second.
"Maybe I just like the ambiance." He'd recovered quickly, gesturing at the fluorescent lights, the smell of gasoline, the flickering lottery sign in the window with exaggerated appreciation.
"Maybe you're following me." I'd said it lightly, like a joke, but watched his reaction carefully. He'd gone still. That easy smile had slipped, revealing something more serious underneath.
"Would that be so bad?" His voice had dropped, losing its playful edge. "If I was?" He'd taken a step closer, close enough that I could smell honey and cinnamon and wanting.
"Depends on why." I'd finished pumping my gas and replaced the nozzle, not giving him an inch. "I don't like being hunted, Remy." I'd met his eyes, letting him see I meant it.
"What if it's not hunting?" He'd tilted his head, those amber eyes searching my face.
"What if it's just... wanting to be close?
Wanting to understand?" His voice had gone soft, almost vulnerable.
I'd considered him for a long moment. The charm was still there, but muted.
Underneath it, I could see the real Remy—the one who'd sung about Luc, the one with ghosts in his eyes.
"Then maybe you should try actually talking to me.
" I'd climbed into my truck and started the engine.
"Instead of lurking at gas stations like a creep.
" I'd pulled away before he could respond, but I'd seen his reflection in my rearview mirror—standing there, watching me go, something complicated on his handsome face.
The next encounter was Harper. I'd gone back to the Fontenot Distillery for more brandy—Mrs. Landry had loved the bottle I'd brought for her husband's memorial, wanted another for his birthday.
At least that's what I told myself. The shop was empty when I arrived, but I could hear movement in the back.
I waited at the counter, idly examining the bottles on display, and tried not to think about the last time I'd been here.
The brush of his fingers. The heat in his eyes.
He emerged from the back room and stopped dead when he saw me.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. He stood there, filling the doorway, those dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed at his sides.
"Artemis." My name in his voice was like whiskey—rough and warm and dangerous. He said it like he'd been practicing, like he'd been turning it over in his mouth when no one was listening.
"Harper." I let his name sit between us, watching the way his jaw tightened at the sound of it. "I need another bottle of that brandy. The 1962." I kept my voice steady, businesslike.
He nodded, moving behind the counter with that careful control I remembered. Giving me space. Keeping distance between us like I was something volatile.
"I've seen your truck." I said it while his back was turned, while he was reaching for a bottle on a high shelf.
"Around town. Parked in places you have no reason to be.
" I watched the muscles in his back tense.
He was quiet for a long moment. When he turned around, the bottle in his hands, his expression was unreadable.
"I'm not good at this." The words came out rough, reluctant, like they'd been dragged from somewhere deep. "Talking. Being around people." He set the bottle on the counter, his eyes fixed on it rather than me.
"Then why are you trying?" I stepped closer, close enough to smell moonshine and cedar.
"Why follow me around town if you're not going to say anything?
" I kept my voice gentle, curious rather than accusatory.
His throat worked. Those dark eyes finally lifted to meet mine, and I saw something raw in them.
Something hungry and afraid and desperate.