Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
Artemis
Iwoke to birdsongs and the smell of woodsmoke.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was—just that I was warm, safe, wrapped in strong arms that held me like I was something precious.
Then the night came rushing back. I shifted slightly, feeling the pleasant ache between my thighs, and his arms tightened around me immediately.
"Morning." His voice was rough with sleep, his breath warm against my hair. We were still on the blanket beneath the pines, though at some point during the night he'd covered us with another blanket, cocooning us against the early morning chill.
"Morning yourself." I twisted in his arms to face him, the blanket sliding off my shoulder, cool morning air kissing my skin.
I reached up to trace the mark I'd left on his throat, feeling the raised edges beneath my fingertips.
He shuddered at the contact, his pale eyes darkening to slate, a low sound building in his chest. "Sleep okay? "
"Best sleep I've had in years." He caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm, his lips warm and soft against my skin. His stubble rasped gently, silver in the early light. "You?"
"Mmm." I stretched, feeling muscles protest in the best way, a delicious soreness that reminded me of everything we'd done. "I could stay here forever."
His mouth curved—that rare, soft smile that transformed his whole face, smoothing the hard edges and making him look almost boyish. "Tempting. But I think we have two very anxious Alphas waiting for us."
Right. Harper and Remy. They'd know by now—would have felt the bond snap into place, the pack finally complete. I touched my throat, feeling all three marks.
"They're probably pacing holes in my floor," I admitted, imagining Harper's heavy boots wearing tracks in my hardwood.
"Harper definitely is." Silas sat up, pulling me with him, the blanket pooling around our waists. He began gathering our scattered clothes from where they'd been tossed in the heat of the night. "Remy's probably stress-baking."
"Remy bakes?" I couldn't keep the surprise from my voice, accepting my shirt from his outstretched hand.
"When he's anxious." Silas handed me the rest of my clothes, his fingers lingering on mine, rough calluses catching on my skin. His pale eyes were soft, unguarded in a way I was still getting used to. "The kitchen will be a disaster zone."
We dressed slowly, stealing kisses between articles of clothing, neither of us quite ready to let go of this quiet bubble we'd built. But the morning was brightening, and I could feel the pull toward home—toward the rest of my pack.
Silas drove us back to my place in his truck, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing absent patterns on my jeans.
The bayou slid past the windows, cypress trees draped in Spanish moss, the water glittering gold in the early morning light.
I leaned my head against his shoulder and breathed him in—pine and rain and something that was just Silas.
When we pulled into my drive, Harper's truck was already there. So was Remy's motorcycle.
"Told you," Silas murmured, his hand finding the small of my back, warm and steadying.
The front door burst open before we'd made it halfway up the path, the screen door banging against the siding.
Remy came flying out, golden curls wild and untamed, flour dusting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose—Silas had been right about the baking—and launched himself at us with zero regard for dignity or personal space.
"Finally!" He crashed into me first, lifting me off my feet and spinning me around until the world blurred, burying his face in my neck.
I felt him inhale deeply, scenting the new bond, his whole body shuddering with relief.
"God, I could feel it happen. In the middle of the night, just—" He made an explosive gesture with one hand, fingers splaying wide. "Boom. Pack complete."
"Put her down before you break her," Harper called from the porch, his deep voice carrying across the yard, but he was already moving toward us, his long strides eating up the distance.
His boots thudded against the wooden steps, then crunched on the gravel path.
His dark eyes found the new mark on my throat, and something fierce and satisfied flickered across his face—possession and relief and joy all tangled together.
Remy set me down just in time for Harper to reach us, my feet barely touching the ground before I was engulfed again.
He didn't spin me around—just pulled me into his chest, one massive hand cradling the back of my head, the other wrapped around my waist like iron.
His nose pressed against my hair, breathing me in.
"Okay?" The word rumbled through his chest, low and private, meant only for me. I could feel his heart pounding against my cheek, faster than his calm exterior would suggest.
"Perfect," I said against his shirt, breathing in cedar and moonshine, feeling the tension slowly drain from his massive frame. "We're perfect."
He held me for a long moment, his chin resting on top of my head, then released me to clasp Silas's shoulder.
His grip was firm, knuckles white with the force of it.
Something passed between them—some wordless Alpha communication I couldn't quite parse, a conversation happening in glances and muscle tension—and then Harper was pulling Silas into a rough hug that made my chest ache, clapping him hard on the back.
"Welcome to the pack," Harper said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion he'd never admit to. "Officially."
"Officially," Silas echoed, and there was something raw in his voice, something vulnerable that he usually kept locked away. His scarred hands gripped the back of Harper's shirt, holding on tight.
Remy threw his arms around both of them, his golden curls bouncing as he squeezed his way into the embrace, turning it into a group huddle that somehow ended up including me when Harper reached out and tugged me in by the wrist.
"Pack hug!" Remy announced, his voice bright and triumphant. "First official pack hug! This is historic! Someone should be documenting this!"
"You're ridiculous," Silas said, but he didn't pull away. His pale eyes were suspiciously bright, and he blinked rapidly, jaw tight.
"I definitely am." Remy squeezed tighter, and I felt the laugh rumble through his chest where it pressed against mine. I laughed, squished between three broad chests, surrounded by their mingled scents. This. This was what I'd been missing my whole life.
"Okay," I finally said, pushing at shoulders and chests until they reluctantly released me, their hands trailing away with obvious reluctance. "Someone mentioned something about stress-baking?"
Remy's face lit up like sunrise, his amber eyes sparkling. "I made muffins! And pancake batter—it's resting. And I was going to do bacon but Harper wouldn't let me near the stove unsupervised, so—" He gestured expansively, flour puffing off his shirt.
I shook my head, biting back a smile, and let them usher me inside, three sets of hands guiding me up the porch steps.
The kitchen was, as Silas had predicted, a disaster zone.
Flour covered approximately seventy percent of the available surfaces, including somehow the ceiling.
There were mixing bowls everywhere, a precarious stack of muffins cooling on a rack—golden-topped and surprisingly professional-looking—and Gumbo had claimed his spot by the back door, surveying the chaos with ancient, judgmental eyes.
"How did you get flour on the ceiling?" I asked, staring upward at the white powder coating the light fixture.
"The bag exploded," Remy said quickly, his voice pitched just a touch too high. He busied himself with straightening already-straight utensils.
"He squeezed it," Harper and Silas said in unison, their voices blending in perfect deadpan harmony.
"I was testing its structural integrity!" Remy's chin lifted with wounded dignity, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the flour still dusting his golden curls.
I poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot someone had thoughtfully prepared, leaned against the counter, and watched my pack bicker over breakfast preparation.
Harper took command of the stove with military precision, flipping pancakes and monitoring bacon.
Remy danced around him, stealing pieces and narrowly avoiding the spatula Harper swatted at him.
Silas had claimed a corner with his own mug, watching everything with quiet amusement, his pale eyes soft in a way I was still getting used to seeing.
Three Alphas. Three bonds humming in my chest. One kitchen that was definitely not big enough for all of us.
It was chaos. It was perfect.
Gumbo, who had been watching from his spot by the back door with ancient, judgmental eyes, let out an imperious hiss that demanded attention.
Remy immediately grabbed a piece of bacon and tossed it in his direction with a practiced flick of his wrist. The gator caught it with a snap of massive jaws, the sound sharp in the warm kitchen, then settled back down with a satisfied rumble, apparently appeased by this tribute.
"Bribing the guardian?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at Remy over the rim of my coffee mug.
"Building diplomatic relations," Remy corrected, sketching a mock bow in Gumbo's direction, one hand pressed to his chest in exaggerated formality. "We have an understanding, him and me." His amber eyes sparkled with mischief.
Gumbo's tail thumped once against the floor—whether in agreement or warning, it was hard to say. His ancient yellow eyes tracked Remy's movements with unblinking intensity.