Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Artemis
The bayou woke before the sun did, and so did I.
I slipped out of my nest in the gray pre-dawn, bare feet silent on the worn cypress floorboards.
The wood was cool and smooth beneath my toes, polished by generations of Delacroix women walking this same path.
Gumbo lifted his massive head from his spot at the foot of my bed, one amber eye cracking open to track my movement.
His scales caught the faint light filtering through the curtains, dark green and ridged like ancient armor.
"Go back to sleep, baby." I kept my voice soft, barely above a whisper, as I trailed my fingers across his rough scales. The texture was familiar, comforting—like running my hand over tree bark or stone worn smooth by water.
He made a low rumble in his throat—not quite a growl, more like acknowledgment—and settled his massive chin back down onto his folded front legs.
Nine feet and four hundred pounds of prehistoric murder machine, and he slept in my nest like an overgrown housecat.
Aunt Marguerite had called him my familiar. I just called him family.
The screen door creaked as I pushed through it onto the porch, the sound sharp in the morning stillness. The pile of survey stakes was still there, orange flags drooping in the humid air, a reminder of yesterday's fury. I stepped over them and kept walking.
The bayou greeted me with its thick, humid embrace, the air so heavy with moisture I could almost drink it. The moss hung like ghostly curtains from the cypress trees, swaying slightly in a breeze I couldn't feel.
The water itself was black glass, still and perfect, reflecting the first pink fingers of dawn creeping across the sky. Mist curled above its surface like smoke, burning off slowly as the temperature rose.
I dropped my sleep shirt on the porch railing—faded cotton that had once been red, now washed to a soft pink—and walked naked down to my dock.
Some Omegas would clutch their pearls at the thought.
What if someone sees? What if an Alpha catches your scent?
As if my body was something to hide. As if my scent was something to be ashamed of.
Aunt Marguerite had cured me of that nonsense years ago.
"Your body is yours, chere," she'd said, her voice carrying that particular blend of French and Louisiana that I'd never heard anywhere else.
We'd been standing in front of the bathroom mirror, and I'd been flinching away from my own reflection after my first heat—disgusted by the slick between my thighs, the flush on my skin, the way my scent had turned thick and sweet.
She'd gripped my chin with surprisingly strong fingers and forced me to meet my own eyes.
"Your scent is your power. Never let anyone make you think otherwise. "
I dove into the water without hesitation, the cool shock of it racing across my skin like electricity.
The bayou swallowed me whole, dark and secret and ancient, and I let it.
I swam down until my fingers brushed the silty bottom, soft mud squishing between them, before pushing back up toward the surface.
I broke through with a gasp, slicking my wet hair back from my face, and floated on my back as the sun finally crested the treeline.
This was my favorite part of the day. Just me and the water and the slowly waking world.
No Alphas with their hungry eyes and barely-leashed instincts.
No whispered gossip from town about the "wild Delacroix girl" living alone in the swamp.
No parents who'd thrown me away like defective merchandise the moment I'd presented.
Just peace.
A ripple in the water nearby told me Gumbo had decided to join me after all.
His snout broke the surface about ten feet away, just his eyes and nostrils visible above the waterline—two golden orbs floating in the dark water like something out of a nightmare.
I knew better. I knew the intelligence behind those eyes, the loyalty, the strange reptilian affection that most people couldn't see.
"Couldn't stay away, huh?" I smiled at him, lazy and content, my voice carrying easily across the still water. My body rose and fell with each slow breath, the water lapping gently against my ears.
His tail swished beneath the surface, creating a small wake.
"Don't worry." I let my eyes drift closed, the sun warm on my face. "I won't tell anyone you're secretly a softie." I floated there, letting the tension from yesterday's discovery slowly seep out of my muscles.
He blinked slowly, his nictitating membranes sliding sideways across his eyes. If alligators could look offended, he'd nailed it.
We swam together as the sun rose higher, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold.
Gumbo kept a respectful distance—he knew I didn't like being crowded, even by him—while I worked the lingering sleep from my muscles with long, easy strokes.
By the time the sky had shifted from pink to pale blue, I was awake in every sense of the word, my blood humming with that familiar restless energy that always seemed to live just beneath my skin.
I hauled myself back onto the dock, water streaming down my body in rivulets, and didn't bother with the shirt on my way back inside.
The morning was already warm, the air thick enough to feel like a second skin, and I'd be dry before I reached the porch anyway.
One of the few benefits of Louisiana summers—you never stayed wet for long.
Inside, I toweled off my hair and pulled on a pair of cutoff shorts so worn the pockets hung below the frayed hem, and a thin tank top that had seen better days—soft and nearly transparent from countless washings. Comfort over fashion, always. Besides, who was I trying to impress? The herons?
My nest called to me.
I'd built it in what used to be Aunt Marguerite's sewing room, knocking out one wall to expand into the spare bedroom.
It had taken me three months of sawing and hammering and cursing, but it was worth it.
The nest took up nearly the entire space now—a sprawling sanctuary of quilts and pillows and soft blankets in deep jewel tones.
Burgundy, forest green, midnight blue. Colors that made me feel safe. Grounded.
There was a depression on one side, worn into the perfect shape by years of Gumbo settling his bulk there on cool nights.
The blankets in that spot were reinforced, doubled up to protect against his rough scales.
And lately, I'd started leaving space on the other sides too. Room for something. Someone.
Someone’s, my instincts whispered, curling warm in my chest. I crawled into the center of the nest, still slightly damp, and pulled one of Aunt Marguerite's quilts around my shoulders.
The fabric was soft with age, the stitching done by hand in tiny, perfect rows.
It still smelled faintly of her—lavender and old books and something sharp that might have been the herbs she used to dry in the kitchen window.
I buried my nose in it and breathed deep, letting the scent fill my lungs.
"I miss you." The words came out rough, scraping past the lump in my throat. I spoke to the empty room. To her memory. To whatever part of her might still be lingering in this house she'd loved so much.
No answer, of course. There never was. Sometimes, if I was quiet enough, I could almost feel her presence. A warmth at my back. A whisper of approval. The faint scent of lavender growing stronger for just a moment before fading away.
Gumbo lumbered through the door—I'd installed a flap for him years ago, much to the horror of everyone who'd ever visited—and settled into his spot with a heavy sigh that made the blankets puff up around him.
The nest dipped under his weight, familiar and comforting.
I reached over to rest my hand on his scales, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath them, and something in my chest unknotted.
"So." I shifted to face him, tucking my legs beneath me and pulling the quilt tighter. "Let's discuss the elephant in the room. Or should I say, the three Alphas circling like sharks who think they're being subtle." I raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for a response.
Gumbo's tail twitched, the heavy length of it thudding softly against the nest. I took that as encouragement.
"First, there's Harper Fontenot." I let the name roll off my tongue, remembering the way he'd looked at me across that counter, all dark eyes and words that came out like they cost him something.
"You've seen him lurking around the property, don't pretend you haven't.
" I pointed at Gumbo accusingly, and he had the audacity to look away.
"Big as a house, and he finally admitted he can't stop thinking about me.
" I flopped back against my pillows, staring up at the ceiling where morning light was starting to creep through the curtains in golden slats.
"He's been hovering. Not approaching, not speaking—just watching.
At first it was creepy. Then I noticed the other things.
The supplies that appeared on my dock when I was running low.
The fence posts that got repaired while I was in town.
" My hand stilled on the quilt. "The way he always seems to position himself between me and trouble at community gatherings, even when he pretends not to notice I exist." I turned my head to look at Gumbo, who was watching me with those ancient, unblinking eyes.
"I went back to the distillery. Made him talk to me.
" I smiled a little, remembering the way his hands had gripped the counter, the way his words had come out all broken and halting.
"He said no one ever saw him before. Saw who he really was.
" I traced a pattern on the quilt. "I held his hand, Gumbo.
He looked at me like I'd given him something precious.
" I sat up, crossing my legs beneath me.