Chapter 22 #3
"That's not true." Harper's voice came from behind me, rough and certain, and I turned to find him watching me with an intensity that made the air feel thin.
"Existing isn't building a life in the bayou.
Isn't taking in strays and reading cards and making a home out of nothing.
" He pushed off from the counter, closing the distance between us.
"That's not existing, Artemis. That's surviving.
That's being strong when you had every reason to break.
" He said firmly, his chocolate stare holding mine.
"He's right." Silas added from his spot by the window, his pewter gaze meeting mine when I looked at him.
"You're more alive than most people I've met.
More real." He paused, something vulnerable flickering across his sharp features.
"It's one of the things that drew me to you. That realness." He admitted quietly.
I felt tears prick at my eyes and blinked them back, turning to the stove so they wouldn't see. "The gumbo's almost ready." I said, my voice thick. "Someone should set the table." I added, stirring the pot with more attention than it needed.
"I'll do it." Remy pressed a kiss to my temple before moving to gather plates, his hand trailing across my lower back as he passed.
We ate on the floor of the living room again, plates balanced on knees, Gumbo watching from his corner with what I chose to interpret as approval.
The gumbo was good—not quite as good as Marguerite's, but close.
Close enough that it felt like she was there with us, blessing this strange little gathering with her presence.
"This is incredible." Harper said around a mouthful, all his usual reserve abandoned in the face of good food. "You made this?" He asked, looking at me with something like awe softening his features.
"Remy helped." I nodded toward the other Alpha, who was already on his second bowl and showing no signs of slowing down. "He made the roux." I added, smiling at the memory of their careful collaboration.
"The roux is the soul of the gumbo." Remy quoted, grinning at me with rice stuck to his chin. "Your aunt was a wise woman." He said, raising his bowl in a toast.
"She was." I agreed, warmth settling in my chest despite the ache of loss. "She really was."
After dinner, we gathered around the candlelight again, the cabin close with the smell of gumbo and the sound of rain starting up outside—gentler this time, not the fury of the storm but the soft patter of a Louisiana drizzle.
"Whiskey?" Remy produced a bottle from somewhere, waggling it enticingly as he looked around the circle. "I brought the good stuff. Seemed like we might need it." He said, already pouring generous measures into mismatched cups.
"You brought whiskey to a hurricane." Harper observed, accepting a cup with something that might have been a smile tugging at his stern mouth.
"I brought whiskey to a potential disaster." Remy corrected, pressing a cup into my hands with a wink. "There's a difference." He insisted, settling onto the floor beside me with his own cup.
"Is there?" Silas asked, accepting his whiskey with a nod of thanks, his attention curious despite his flat tone.
"Absolutely." Remy took a long sip, humming in appreciation at the burn.
"Hurricanes are forces of nature. Disasters are what happens when you're not prepared.
" He gestured around the candlelit cabin with his cup.
"We were prepared. So this is just... an adventure.
A very wet, very inconvenient adventure.
" He reasoned, mischief dancing in his expression.
I laughed, leaning into his shoulder, feeling Harper's warmth on my other side where he'd settled close enough that our knees touched. Silas sat across from us, but he'd moved closer as the evening wore on, drawn into the circle by degrees.
"To adventures." I raised my cup, watching the candlelight dance in the amber liquid. "And to the people who make them bearable." I added, meeting each of their gazes in turn.
"To adventures." They echoed, glasses raised, and we drank.
The whiskey was good—smooth and warming, spreading heat through my chest with each sip.
The conversation flowed easier with alcohol loosening tongues, touching on topics we'd danced around before.
Remy talked about his family, the pressure of being the youngest son, the way his brothers had always outshone him in traditional ways.
Harper spoke about Claire—haltingly, painfully, but he spoke.
Silas even shared a piece of his time overseas, a story about a stray dog that had adopted his unit, had been their mascot until the day it wasn't.
"He died saving us." Silas said quietly, staring into his whiskey like he could find answers in its depths.
"IED. He ran toward it instead of away. Gave us the warning we needed to take cover.
" He paused, his scarred hands tight around his cup.
"Named my first rescue after him. A shepherd mix, half-starved, found him in a ditch outside Baton Rouge.
" He finished, his voice rough with old grief.
"What was the dog's name?" I asked softly, reaching across the circle to touch his knee, needing him to know he wasn't alone in this.
"Sergeant." Silas looked up, and there was something raw in his expression, something exposed and vulnerable. "We called him Sergeant. Because he was braver than any officer we'd ever served under." He covered my hand with his, squeezing once before letting go.
The night wound down slowly, the whiskey warming our blood, the rain pattering gently against the windows.
At some point, we'd all migrated closer together, the boundaries between us blurring in the candlelight.
Remy was pressed against my side, his head on my shoulder.
Harper sat behind me, his back against the couch, close enough that I could lean into him if I wanted.
Silas had finally joined the huddle, sitting across from us but near enough that our knees touched in the middle.
"Thursday." Remy murmured sleepily, his voice soft against my shoulder. "We were supposed to have our pack meeting on Thursday." He reminded us, his words slightly slurred from the whiskey.
"Storm had other plans." Harper's voice rumbled from behind me, his breath stirring my hair. "Guess we're having it now instead." He observed, his hand finding my hip and resting there like it had always belonged.
"Are we?" I asked, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment, the significance of what we were all dancing around. "Having the meeting, I mean?" I clarified, my heart starting to beat faster.
"Think we've been having it all day." Silas said, his gaze clear despite the alcohol, cutting through to the heart of things the way he always did.
"All week, really. Every meal we've shared.
Every conversation. Every time we chose to be here instead of somewhere else.
" He gestured around the circle with his cup.
"This is what pack looks like, Artemis. What it feels like.
We've already started building it." He said quietly.
"He's right." Harper's arm tightened around me, pulling me more firmly against his chest. "This isn't a negotiation. It's a recognition. Of what's already true." He rumbled, his voice low and certain against my ear.
"What's already true." I repeated softly, looking around at the three of them—Harper's steady darkness, Remy's bright warmth, Silas's sharp edges. "And what's that?" I asked, needing to hear them say it.
"That we're yours." Remy lifted his head from my shoulder, his expression serious for once, all the playfulness stripped away.
"That we've been yours since the moment we met you, even if we didn't know it then.
" He reached up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"That we're not going anywhere. Not ever.
Unless you send us away." He vowed, his voice rough with feeling.
"I'm not sending anyone away." I felt tears threatening and didn't bother fighting them this time. "I'm keeping all of you. If you'll let me." I whispered, my voice breaking on the last word.
"Let you?" Harper's laugh was low and disbelieving, his arms tightening around me. "Artemis, we've been waiting for you to keep us. Hoping you would. Terrified you wouldn't." He pressed his face into my hair, inhaling deeply. "You're not getting rid of us now. Not ever." He growled softly.
"Pack." Silas said, the single word carrying the weight of a vow. "That's what we are. What we're choosing to be." He reached into the circle, offering his hand palm-up—an invitation, a promise. "If you'll have us." He added, vulnerability written across features that rarely showed anything at all.
I placed my hand in his without hesitation. Remy's hand covered mine. Harper's covered them both. Four hands, stacked together in the candlelight, while the rain fell softly outside and a nine-foot alligator watched from his corner with ancient, approving eyes.
"Pack." I agreed, the word feeling like a key turning in a lock, like a door opening to a room I hadn't known existed. "We're pack."
The cabin settled around us, cozy and secure, filled with the smell of gumbo and whiskey and the mingled scents of three Alphas who had somehow become home.
Outside, the flood waters continued to rise. But inside, something had finally fallen into place.