23. Helen
HELEN
Skyward Sanctuary smells of grain and warm feathers. It’s stronger on a sunny day like this. They say volunteering is good for the soul, but there’s something different about a place dedicated to broken wings and second chances.
I’m on nursery duty today. Bree hands me a tray of precisely cut feed portions—small strips of mouse and chick, weighed and portioned like a science experiment. “You’ve got the puppet?”
“Yeah,” I say and open my bag.
“Imprinting is never good for anyone,” Bree replies. “Last thing we need is a Great Horned thinking it’s people.”
I hand her the puppet which I built it on a lightweight foam base, shaped like an adult owl. She slips her hand inside and gives it an experimental snap. “Oh my God, Helen. You are impossible.” The beak closes with a soft, controlled click. “That looks great.”
“I don’t mind making a few more.”
“That would be amazing. Ours look like craft-store tragedies.”
I grin. “Functional tragedy.”
“Still tragedy.”
She sets the puppet into my hands and turns to her tablet, logging intake notes with efficient taps.
“Hey, can I see Levon later?” I ask.
“Of course. His enclosure was cleaned this morning. Fresh bedding, and a new perch too. He’s a very happy raptor. He didn’t try to bite anyone today. That’s as close as we get.”
I promise I’ll check on him after helping out and head toward the nursery, tray balanced in one hand, puppet in the other.
Before entering, I pause in the observation corridor. The one-way window runs the length of the enclosure, allowing us to watch without being watched. Inside, three owlets cluster around a low perch.
They are absurd, like old men trapped in feathered ping-pong balls. According to Bree, they were found orphaned in Mohonk Preserve after a late spring storm tore through their nesting site. Four-week-old Great Horned owlets, fully downed but still figuring out what wings are for.
I sanitize, pull on gloves, and enter. All three owlets freeze at once—upright, eyes wide, bodies puffed to look bigger than they are.
I kneel slowly, lowering myself to their level. The puppet rises. The snap of the beak draws their attention. I offer the first strip to the boldest one. It lunges, mantles, and swallows in one decisive motion. The second takes its portion with a sideways shuffle.
Two fed. The third remains a step back. I pivot the puppet toward it. One of the larger owlets advances, wings flaring wide, blocking my line of sight. Another snaps toward the movement, talons gripping bedding as it tries to edge closer.
“Hey,” I murmur without thinking, then stop myself.
No voice.
I extend the puppet past the dominant one, trying to reach the smaller bird. It leans forward…almost there. Then recoils as a sibling bumps it hard in the shoulder.
All right. I withdraw and rise carefully, then exit the enclosure.
The observation corridor feels brighter when I step into it.
And just that much louder.
Bree stands near the one-way glass, and there is an audience. For half a second my brain stalls. They look like volunteers, but then they don’t, because volunteers rarely come with faces and physiques like that.
Bree beams. “Helen! Perfect timing. These two just finished cleaning the raptor enclosure. I know you’ve met Dr. Liam Hunt,” she says and Liam inclines his head with all his handsomeness. “Not sure if you’ve met Maximilian.”
“Max,” he corrects cheerfully, already stepping forward. “And yes, we’ve met.”
“Hi,” I say.
Max tilts his head toward the enclosure. “You were like some kind of owl ninja in there.”
I let myself enjoy the moment for what it is, good company on a weekend that didn’t need to be complicated.
Max is slightly taller than Liam, the resemblance obvious but looser somehow.
Same dark hair, same striking bone structure, but where Liam carries himself like a man people listen to, Max has an easier confidence.
Together they’re the sort of men who end up on every “most eligible in New York” list—assuming either of them is actually unattached.
If I hadn’t met Liam first, I suspect I’d have found myself jumping ships more than once.
I steer the conversation back where it belongs. “Those two are establishing dominance.” I point at the owlets playing partners in crime.
“Classic sibling hierarchy,” Bree says. “Happens every feeding.”
Max folds his arms. “It was very Succession. Just…with feathers.”
“We need a bit of separation,” I suggest. “The smallest one’s getting blocked every time I try to feed it.”
Bree nods immediately. “Want a second set of hands?”
“Yes, please.”
“Well,” she says brightly, turning back to the men. “You two have done a marvelous job cleaning the raptor enclosure. Now it’s up to you what you want to do. I can show you our new parrots facility, or you can keep observing the owlets.”
“Parrots,” Liam says immediately.
“No, no,” Max counters. “We stay. Owlets are fascinating.”
Bree looks between them. “All right then. Who’s volunteering to go in and help Helen?”
Max glances at his brother while saying quickly, “I may not be the inspirational choice.”
Liam takes a second, then says, “I’ll assist.”
The words are simple. The look he gives his brother isn’t. There’s rank in it, and something else. It’s almost like my impulse to step in before my sister takes the weight of whatever might come next. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. But I don’t think so.
“That’s the man,” Bree says, delighted.
And just like that, I’m about to go back into the enclosure with reinforcements. Of all the possible reinforcements in Ulster County.
I don’t look at Liam when he steps into the enclosure with me. I feel him.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, careful not to disturb the owlets.
He’s the one with the degrees, the experience, and the authority in a room like this. He could take over and start issuing instructions. Instead, he asks what I need. I didn’t realize how much that mattered.
“The two dominant ones, can you distract them?” I whisper.
“Got it.”
He moves down behind me, positioning himself between me and the two larger owlets.
The boldest one puffs, wings spreading.
Liam extends a gloved hand—not grabbing, not shoving—just creating a barrier. The owlet snaps once at his glove. He doesn’t flinch, instead, he gives me a cue to start moving.
The smallest owlet edges forward, neck stretching toward the puppet, beak parting.
One of the others tries to lunge past Liam’s arm. He redirects it smoothly with a subtle pivot of his wrist, shielding my line of sight. Shielding me.
I bring the puppet down. The beak opens and the strip of feed disappears into the smallest owlet’s mouth. It swallows.
The relief is disproportionate, but I keep my voice locked behind my teeth instead of whispering encouragement like a fool. I offer another piece. This time the smaller one steps forward with its wings lifted in confidence.
Liam blocks a second attempted intrusion. For a few seconds, his body is a wall at my back. And I don’t hate the feeling of knowing someone is holding the line while I focus on what’s in front of me.
When the last portion is gone, I withdraw the puppet slowly.
“Done,” I whisper.
He winks—brief, unexpected. For a second he looks less like a doctor and more like the man who enjoys being the hero for thirty seconds.
We exit together.
Bree beams at the three of us. “Well done, team. That’s exactly how we like to see it.”
She reaches into her pocket and produces two bright star stickers, pressing one onto Max’s and Liam’s shirts with exaggerated ceremony.
“Official Skyward Rehabber Stars,” she declares. Then she checks the roll again and frowns. Empty. “Helen, I’m out, but you’re absolutely getting one next print run.” She raises a finger toward Max as if remembering something he said. “What was it? Owl Ninja?”
Max straightens at once. “It’s a title earned in the field.”
Bree laughs and bumps his fist. “I’ll have it engraved.” She then gives Liam a pointed look. “And don’t forget the next volunteer roster. I need confirmations by Thursday.”
“Yes, Bree,” he says obediently.
She disappears down the hallway, leaving the three of us in front of the glass.
Max leans against a pillar, inspecting something low on his shirt with exaggerated offense. There’s a streak of white and brown down the front of his shirt.
“Juvenile barn owl in the other enclosure,” he announces stiffly. “Unprovoked. Barney never did this. He respected me.”
“Barney can’t fly,” Liam says. “He doesn’t have options.”
Max narrows his eyes at me. “You realize I outrank you in owl experience.”
“And yet,” Liam gestures to his own perfectly clean shirt, “here we are.”
Max scowls at him.
“To be fair,” Liam says mildly, “Barney chose you because he couldn’t leave. Though if you’d used a puppet when you fed him after you found him, maybe he wouldn’t have developed attachment issues.”
“Hey,” Max protests, “attachment to me is safe. I know he would’ve been happier in the wild, but we’re a partnership now.”
I glance back at the owlets, then at the two men standing beside me—one with bird poop on his shirt, one composed and immaculate, both somehow equally at ease here.
Max checks his phone, makes a theatrical face, and sighs. “I’ve been summoned.”
“Barney?” Liam asks.
“Who else? He’s the only one running my weekends,” Max replies and claps Liam on the shoulder. “Doctor. Try not to let the Owl Ninja outmaneuver you.”
“I’ll manage,” Liam replies.
Max gives me a quick salute and disappears down the path toward the front of the sanctuary.
“You’re here often?” he asks as we start walking.
“Apparently I can’t stay away from feathered grumps,” I say. “You?”
“I’m supposed to volunteer every fortnight,” he says. “But let’s just say…life gets in the way more often than not.”
We pass a row of enclosures through the smell of pine and clean straw. A red-tailed hawk tracks us from his perch.
“Levon,” I say, keeping my voice soft but not my smile.
Levon doesn’t acknowledge me. He stands tall, feathers sleek. He’s healthy, and that’s enough.
“How’s Victor?” Liam tosses out.
“Ah, he’s in Europe.”
“Europe, hey?” His tone stays light. “You’re not tempted to come along?”
“I have work.”
“I see.” He nods. “It’s good you still make time for this.”
“These creatures?” I gesture toward Levon. “They’re easier than European holidays.”
He gives me a wry look.
We stand there a moment longer, watching Levon survey his kingdom. Gravel crunches under Liam’s shoes as he adjusts his stance beside me.
The strange thing is, my pulse behaves.
He’s still distractingly attractive. Every time I look at him, I’m reminded how unordinary he is beyond the broad shoulders and tall presence. But today doesn’t give me that dizzy rush I felt in his clinic, all gauze and antiseptic and premature chemistry. It’s easier. It’s new.
He gestures toward a wooded edge beyond the flight cages. “You know, main risks for raptors around here are habitat loss, vehicle strikes, secondary poisoning.” He pauses. “And foxes.”
“Foxes?”
“Red foxes will raid nests if they can reach them. Especially if young fall early.”
For a second, I lose my train of thought.
I’m back in that room with Red Fox. Silk. Spiced, woody scent. The almost-kiss.
God…
I’m glad we didn’t follow through. Though the jolt is still there when I think about it.
“Foxes are opportunistic,” Liam continues, unaware of the direction my mind has taken.
I bring myself back to Levon and the smell of straw. “I suppose nature isn’t sentimental.”
His brow lifts. “Very true.”
I force my thoughts into order. Liam and Red Fox are just…seasoning. A little heat. A passing note. The kind of attraction you can admire without rearranging your life.
A heart doesn’t belong to the most exciting possibility. It belongs to the person who’s been there long enough to matter. Time endures. It reveals who stays.
Victor and I made a commitment. We agreed to start again and do it properly. His push for that Europe trip was unnecessary, and we both ended up angry. Next time, if something isn’t working for me, I’ll say it calmly. That’s what grownups do.
The wind blows through the trees and I think about the nursery full of indignant fluff and feathers. About the day I pulled Levon off the roadside in Millbrook. About Lord Ferreton, Diego, the endless chaos of Summit Tail shoots—the long stretches of time when Victor was elsewhere.
I should be missing him.
I’m not.