Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
Artemis
Three months later, and I still couldn't quite believe it was real.
I stood in the kitchen of our new house—our house, the one we'd built together on the bones of my aunt's old cabin—and watched the afternoon light stream through windows that hadn't existed months ago.
The countertops were butcher block, warm honey-gold, chosen because Harper said they'd age beautifully.
The cabinets were painted a soft sage green, Silas's suggestion, and the tile backsplash was hand-painted with magnolias that Remy had found at a little shop in New Orleans.
Every inch of this place had been built with four sets of hands. Four opinions. Four hearts beating in time.
"You're going to wear a hole in that floor, cher.
" I turned to find Remy leaning against the doorframe, watching me with those amber eyes that still made my breath catch.
He was dressed nicer than usual—dark jeans without any holes, a button-down shirt the color of moss that brought out the gold in his hair.
He'd even attempted to tame his curls, though a few had already escaped to tumble across his forehead.
He looked beautiful. He also looked terrified.
"I could say the same about you." I crossed to him, reaching up to smooth down the collar he'd been fidgeting with. "You've checked your hair in the mirror four times in the last hour."
"Five." His dimples flashed, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Not that I'm counting."
I cupped his face in my hands, feeling the slight tremor in his jaw, the nervous energy vibrating just beneath his skin. "Hey. Look at me." His eyes met mine, and I saw it all there—the fear, the hope, the desperate longing he was trying so hard to hide behind his usual charm.
"They're going to love you," I said firmly, stroking my thumbs along his cheekbones.
"They already love you. They've always loved you.
Now they get to see the man you've become.
The man I fell in love with." I pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
"The man who helped build this ridiculous, beautiful house with his bare hands. "
"Mostly my bare hands were on the guitar while Harper did the actual building." But he was smiling now, something real breaking through the nerves, his dimples making a tentative appearance. "Silas helped too. I mostly provided moral support. And snacks."
"Very important contributions." I kissed him again, then pulled back with a smirk. "Though if I recall correctly, you also provided unsolicited opinions about paint colors, argued with Harper about the porch design for three days, and somehow broke two hammers."
"The hammers were defective!" He threw his hands up, curls bouncing with the motion.
"You were using them wrong." I folded my arms, raising an eyebrow.
"I was using them creatively." He caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm, his lips warm against my skin.
"But seriously—your parents are going to walk through that door and see their son, healthy and happy and surrounded by people who love him.
That's all they've ever wanted, Remy. That's all any parent wants. "
His eyes went bright, and he had to look away, blinking rapidly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "You're going to make me ruin my eyeliner, cher."
"You're not wearing eyeliner." I brushed a curl back from his forehead.
"I considered it." His voice wobbled between laughter and tears, a watery smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you. For making me do this. For not letting me run."
"Always." I squeezed his fingers. "Now go check on the gumbo. If you burn your grandmother's recipe the first time your maman tastes it, you'll never hear the end of it."
He laughed—a real laugh this time, bright and startled—and disappeared back toward the stove.
I took a moment to breathe, looking around at everything we'd created.
The living room opened off the kitchen, big windows facing the bayou, the afternoon light painting everything gold.
Harper's grandfather's rocker sat by the fireplace, restored and refinished to gleaming perfection.
Silas had built the bookshelves himself, floor to ceiling, already filled with volumes we'd collected together.
Remy's guitars lined one wall—not on a stage, but on custom hooks that displayed them like art.
Through those big windows, I could see the dock stretching out over the water, and the massive shape of Gumbo basking on his favorite rock in the afternoon sun.
We'd built him a proper habitat on the property's edge—a pond with a warming area for winter, shaded spots for summer, easy access to the bayou when he wanted to roam.
Silas had designed it, researching alligator habitats with the same intensity he brought to everything.
Gumbo had investigated it suspiciously for three days before deigning to use it.
He still preferred his rock by the dock. Some things never changed.
"How's he doing?" Harper's voice rumbled from behind me, and I felt his arms wrap around my waist, his chest solid and warm against my back.
"Nervous." I leaned into him, letting his steadiness ground me. "But he'll be okay. We'll make sure of it."
"Damn right we will." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his beard scratching pleasantly against my hair. "The roast is resting. Silas is setting the table. I moved all the breakables out of reach in case Gumbo decides to make an appearance."
I snorted despite my own nerves. "He's not going to come inside during dinner."
"He came inside last Tuesday." Harper's voice was dry as dust, one eyebrow arched.
"That was different. There was a thunderstorm." I waved a dismissive hand.
"He ate half a ham." Harper's expression remained unimpressed, though I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"He was stressed." I poked Harper in the chest, my finger barely denting his solid muscle. "And you're the one who left the ham on the counter where he could reach it, so really, that's on you."
"The counter is four feet high." He caught my poking finger, wrapping his massive hand around it gently.
"And Gumbo is very determined." I turned in Harper's arms, looking up at his face—that steady jaw, the silver threading through his beard that hadn't been there when we met. "Are you nervous? About meeting them?"
"No." His answer was immediate, certain, no hesitation in his deep voice.
"They raised Remy. That tells me everything I need to know about what kind of people they are.
" His hands settled on my hips, thumbs tracing gentle circles through the fabric of my dress.
"Besides, they helped save your land. Our land. I owe them more than I can ever repay."
"You don't owe them anything. That's not how family works." I smoothed my hands over his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath my palms.
"Speaking of family." Silas appeared in the doorway, silent as always, his expression carefully neutral but something warm lurking beneath.
He'd dressed up too—dark slacks, a charcoal sweater that hid most of his scars but not all of them.
He'd made that choice deliberately, I knew.
No hiding. Not anymore. "There's a car coming up the drive. "
Remy made a sound from the kitchen that might have been a whimper. I extracted myself from Harper's arms and crossed to where Remy stood frozen by the stove, his knuckles white around a wooden spoon. His face had gone pale beneath his tan, and I could see his pulse jumping in his throat.
"Hey." I took the spoon from his unresisting fingers and set it aside. "We're right here. All of us. Whatever happens, you're not facing it alone."
"What if they hate the house?" His voice came out strangled, too fast. "What if they hate the pack dynamics? What if my maman takes one look at Silas and—"
"Then she'll see a man who loves her son and would die to protect him." Silas's voice cut through Remy's spiral, quiet but firm. He'd moved to stand beside us, close enough to touch but not quite doing so. "Parents recognize that. Good ones, anyway."
Remy stared at him, something vulnerable and raw flickering across his features, his throat working. "Silas—" He couldn't seem to finish, couldn't find the words for whatever emotion was choking him.
"They drove hours to see you." Harper joined us, completing the circle, his massive presence somehow both intimidating and comforting.
"They've been calling every week since the courthouse.
Your mother sent four care packages last month.
Four, Remy. That's not the behavior of people who are going to judge you. "
"The cookies were good," Silas added, his lips twitching. "The pralines were better."
A choked laugh escaped Remy's throat. "She makes them every Christmas. It's a whole production. Takes over the entire kitchen, won't let anyone help—" He broke off, something painful and sweet crossing his face. "I haven't been home for Christmas in twelve years."
"Then maybe this year, you will be." I took his hand, threading our fingers together.
"But first—one step at a time. One dinner.
One meeting. If it's too much, we leave.
We make an excuse and we leave. No one is going to force you to do anything you're not ready for.
" He looked at me, then at Harper, then at Silas.
Something in his expression shifted—the fear still there but joined now by determination, by hope, by the fierce love that burned beneath all his charm and bluster.
"Okay." He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders. "Okay. Let's do this."
The doorbell rang.
For a moment, none of us moved. Then Remy laughed—shaky but real—and ran a hand through his carefully styled hair, destroying it entirely.
"Here goes nothing, cher." He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and headed for the door with the determined stride of a man walking toward his fate.