Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Artemis
Thursday arrived faster than I expected.
I spent most of the day stress-cleaning, which was ridiculous because my cabin was already clean and none of these Alphas had earned the right to judge my housekeeping.
Still, I scrubbed the kitchen counters twice, rearranged my tarot decks three times, and changed my outfit four times before settling on jeans and a tank top that said I hadn't tried too hard.
Gumbo watched all of this from his spot in the shallows, his amber eyes tracking me every time I passed a window. Judgmental bastard.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm allowed to be nervous. Three Alphas are coming to my home. Three." I pointed at him through the screen door as I set out glasses and a bottle of whiskey on the porch table, my voice coming out sharper than I intended as I held up three fingers for emphasis.
He blinked slowly. Unimpressed.
"You're no help." I muttered under my breath, shaking my head as I turned back inside to check the time for the hundredth time, my bare feet padding against the worn wooden floor.
Six o'clock. I'd told them seven. One hour to go.
I poured myself a drink and took it out to the porch, settling into Marguerite's old rocking chair. The bayou stretched out before me, golden in the late afternoon light, Spanish moss swaying in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a heron called.
This was my home. My territory. Whatever happened tonight, that wouldn't change.
Harper arrived first.
I heard his truck before I saw it—a deep rumble that was nothing like my rattletrap engine. He pulled up to the edge of my property at exactly 6:45, because of course he was early, and sat in his truck for a full minute before getting out.
I watched him approach from my spot on the porch, whiskey in hand, not moving to greet him.
Let him come to me. This was my territory.
He walked like a man who knew his own strength and was careful with it.
Broad shoulders, massive hands, those dark eyes fixed on me like I was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
He was wearing a clean flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he'd clearly made an effort—his dark hair was neatly combed, his jaw freshly shaved.
He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, waiting. Asking permission without words.
"Come on up. You're early." I gestured to the chair beside me with my glass, keeping my voice neutral and my posture relaxed even as my pulse kicked up a notch at the way his scent drifted up to me—moonshine and cedar smoke curling through the humid evening air.
"Didn't want to be late. Didn’t know how long it would take.
" He climbed the steps slowly, each one creaking under his considerable weight, and lowered himself into the chair I'd indicated with the careful movements of a man who'd learned the hard way that furniture wasn't always built for someone his size.
His hands came to rest on his thighs, fingers spread wide like he didn't know what to do with them, and I noticed the way his shoulders stayed tense despite his attempt at casual posture.
"You've been to my property before. Multiple times, apparently." I raised an eyebrow and took a deliberate sip of my whiskey, letting the words hang in the air between us, watching the way his jaw tightened at the accusation.
His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. He didn't deny it.
"I brought this. 1958. My grandmother's favorite year.
" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle—amber liquid in hand-blown glass, the label written in that same spidery script I remembered from the brandy—and held it out like an offering, his massive hand dwarfing the delicate glass, his dark eyes fixed somewhere around my collarbone because he couldn't quite bring himself to meet my gaze.
I took the bottle, turning it over in my hands. The glass was warm from being pressed against his body.
"An apology gift?" I kept my voice light, almost teasing, but I was watching him carefully—the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the slight tremor in his fingers as he let go of the bottle.
"A... hope. That you'll give me a chance to explain.
Even though I don't deserve one." He finally met my eyes, and the rawness there made my chest tight—this massive, powerful Alpha looking at me like I held his fate in my hands, his voice coming out rough and halting as each word seemed to cost him something.
Before I could respond, another engine sound cut through the evening air. This one was lighter, more musical—a motorcycle, I realized. Remy.
He pulled up beside Harper's truck and killed the engine, swinging off the bike with the easy grace of a man who knew exactly how good he looked doing it. Honey-blond curls, sun-kissed skin, that devastating smile already in place.
The smile faltered when he saw Harper on the porch.
"Didn't realize we were doing this in order of arrival.
I would've broken some speed limits." He sauntered up to the porch, his scent preceding him—river water and honey and warm cinnamon—and threw me a wink that was probably meant to be charming, but I could see the tension coiled in his shoulders and the way his amber eyes kept flicking to the bigger Alpha like he was calculating threat levels.
"Thibodaux." Harper's voice was a low rumble, barely more than a growl, the single word carrying a weight of territorial warning that made the air between them crackle.
"Fontenot. Nice shirt. You dress up for all your stalking victims, or just the pretty ones?" Remy grinned, all teeth and challenge, but the expression didn't reach his eyes—they stayed sharp, watchful, tracking Harper's every micro-movement like he was waiting for the bigger man to lunge.
A growl built in Harper's chest, low and warning, his massive hands curling into fists on his thighs.
"Boys. You're both here because I invited you.
Save the posturing for someone who's impressed by it.
Sit." I cut in before things could escalate, my voice sharp enough to slice through the testosterone-thick tension, and I pointed to the empty chair on my other side while holding Remy's gaze until the challenge in his amber eyes flickered and died and he dropped into the seat with exaggerated casualness.
He sprawled in the chair like he owned it, but I noticed the way he angled his body—keeping Harper in his peripheral vision, keeping me between them like a buffer.
"Where's the third one? Boudreaux. The creepy one who moves like a serial killer." He reached for the whiskey bottle without asking permission and poured himself a generous measure, his casual tone belied by the white-knuckled grip on the glass.
"He's not creepy. He's just... different." The words came out before I could stop them, surprising all three of us, and I took back the whiskey bottle with more force than necessary as I poured a glass for Harper and set it in front of him with a definitive clink against the wooden table.
"Different. That's one word for it." Remy snorted, the sound somewhere between amused and derisive, and took a long drink that drained half his glass in one swallow.
I was about to respond when I felt it—that prickle of awareness across my skin, the sense of being watched.
I turned toward the tree line and saw nothing. No movement. No sound.
"Silas. Stop lurking and come join us. I know you're there." I called out, pitching my voice to carry across the clearing, my eyes scanning the shadows between the cypress trees where the fading sunlight couldn't reach.
A long moment of silence. Then Silas stepped out of the trees like he'd materialized from the shadows themselves. Remy choked on his whiskey, the amber liquid spraying from his lips as he doubled over coughing.
"How long has he been there?" He sputtered between coughs, his eyes watering, one hand pressed against his chest.
"Since before you arrived. I wanted to assess the situation before entering.
" Silas's voice was flat and toneless as he approached the porch, his pale gray eyes sweeping over the scene with the methodical precision of someone cataloging threats and exits—the two Alphas, me between them, Gumbo floating in the shallows behind us, the distance to the tree line, the angles of approach.
"The situation is four adults having a conversation.
Come up. Have a drink. Try using your words instead of your surveillance skills.
" I gestured to the remaining chair and poured a fourth glass of whiskey, letting a hint of dry amusement color my tone as I watched him process the invitation like it was a tactical briefing.
He climbed the steps without a sound, his boots somehow silent on the creaking wood, and settled into the chair with the coiled stillness of a predator at rest—every muscle relaxed but ready, his pale eyes never quite settling on any one thing for more than a heartbeat.
His scent was different from the others—rain and moss and something electric, like ozone before a storm.
Three Alphas on my porch. Three sets of eyes fixed on me. Three different scents mingling in the humid evening air.
"Well. This is cozy." I leaned back in my chair, the old wood groaning beneath me, and looked at each of them in turn—Harper with his untouched whiskey, Remy with his brittle smile, Silas with his unnerving stillness—letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
None of them laughed. Harper stared at his untouched whiskey like it held the secrets of the universe. Remy's smile had gone brittle at the edges, cracking like old paint. Silas was watching me with those unsettling silver eyes, cataloging every detail like he was memorizing me for a report.
Gumbo chose that moment to surface near the dock, his massive head breaking the water with a soft splash that sent ripples across the still surface. All three Alphas tensed, their attention snapping to the alligator with varying degrees of alarm.