24. Chapter Twenty-Five
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EVIE
I leaned closer to the laptop anyway and enlarged the photograph until the bird's head filled most of the screen, checking the fine line around its eye, the green feathers sweeping over its crown, and the tiny beads of water still clinging to the branch beneath its feet.
Everything that needed to be crisp was crisp, while the stream behind it softened into green and brown without competing for attention.
The next photograph held up just as well, and the one after that caught the kingfisher half turned toward the water with enough open space along one side that it would work nicely if the image ever ended up in an editorial layout.
“Much better.” I murmured to myself as I moved through the sequence, satisfaction spreading through me when the fourth frame survived the same obsessive inspection without giving me anything worth complaining about.
The reshoot had been worth the extra trip. It was mildly irritating that the kingfisher had been right about me clicking too much, but I was never going to tell him that. I had enough animals criticizing my professional habits without encouraging them.
My station worktable looked considerably more lived in than it had when I'd first arrived.
Two external drives sat beside my laptop, one actively backing up the morning's files while the other rested inside a padded sleeve.
My notebook lay open beside them, its pages covered in location notes, weather conditions, species sightings, and several lines I'd crossed through after reviewing the latest photographs.
A charging battery blinked beside my elbow, damp socks hung from the back of the chair because apparently I had reached a point in my career where that counted as acceptable office decor, and a half-empty bottle of water sat close enough that Mara couldn't accuse me of ignoring it.
There were still several weeks left on the assignment, so nothing about my professional routine had started winding down yet.
I had locations left to revisit, species I wanted better coverage of, weather-dependent shots I couldn't schedule until the forest cooperated, and more than enough work to keep me busy.
That part of my life remained completely normal, while everything outside of it had quietly changed without me noticing exactly when.
I had slept at the temple the night before and woken with Malek's arm wrapped around my waist while Tavian's foot was wedged firmly against my calf, which apparently counted as his contribution to sharing the nest. Luca had somehow managed to sleep along the outer edge without disturbing anything I'd arranged, though the moment I tried to get dressed quietly, he'd opened one green-gold eye and informed me that fruit was wrapped near the worktable for breakfast before immediately going back to sleep.
By seven, I had been back at the station.
By eight, Mara had my intended route for the day, and by nine I had been standing in vegetation high enough to soak my pants while photographing tanagers.
Around noon, a capuchin had informed me that my hat was ugly, and by midafternoon I had returned with mud halfway up one leg and enough usable photographs to justify being filthy.
Somewhere between washing my hands and opening the kingfisher files, I'd started mentally arranging the rest of my evening without giving it much thought.
I needed to finish sorting two folders, make the six o'clock check-in even though I was currently sitting within shouting distance of Mara, eat an actual dinner instead of whatever fruit Tavian decided counted as a meal, and then go back to the temple.
My fingers stopped on the trackpad because I hadn't asked myself whether I was going back.
There had been no debate about whether sleeping there made sense with tomorrow's route, no attempt to justify another night away from the station, and no wondering whether the men expected me.
I'd simply included the temple in my plans the same way I might think about returning to my apartment after errands when I was home between assignments.
Work, dinner, temple. I hadn't even questioned the last part.
I leaned back in the chair and rubbed my fingers absently along the side of my neck, where my gland felt more sensitive than it had any reason to be.
Honey and jasmine warmed faintly around me, softened by the blockers I still took on schedule but noticeable now that I'd learned how much my scent changed around the men.
I knew what waited at the temple, and apparently some part of me had stopped treating it like another interesting place I happened to spend time.
My nest was there, along with Malek's charcoal shirt tucked near the pillows because cedar had somehow become something my sleeping brain wanted close enough to breathe in.
Luca's blanket had been rearranged enough times that I could tell when someone else moved even part of it, while Tavian's seed and shell rested on the low shelf where I'd deliberately placed them.
I'd originally insisted I wasn't collecting anything, yet that argument was becoming harder to defend every time I added something else to the room.
Their scents were everywhere, and so were their purrs.
Three Alpha bodies took up a ridiculous amount of space when they all slept with me, yet the nest felt more complete with them inside it instead of crowded.
Nothing was forcing me back there, and that mattered.
My assignment still came first whenever work required it, Mara still knew my routes and expected return times, and I continued sleeping at the station whenever my schedule made that more practical.
None of the men showed up demanding explanations when I did, nor had they tried to turn courtship into a claim on every hour I wasn't actively working.
My Omega instincts clearly liked the routine too, but wanting familiar Alpha scents around me and deciding where I spent my nights were two different things.
I was going back because I wanted to.
The soft chime from my laptop pulled my attention toward the corner of the screen. I expected another backup notification, but instead an email banner appeared with a name I recognized immediately.
Caroline Mercer — Wild Terrain
For half a second, I assumed something had gone wrong with the emergency cover photographs, but the issue was already far enough along that nobody should suddenly discover I'd somehow sent them the photographs.
I opened the message and felt that concern disappear before I finished the first paragraph.
Caroline thanked me again for helping with the replacement cover material and explained that the images had gone over extremely well with the editorial team, especially considering how little notice I'd had.
The final layout had apparently come together better than they'd expected after the licensing problem, and she'd kept my contact information because another project had recently received approval.
By the second paragraph, every part of my photographer brain had taken over.
Wild Terrain was preparing a three-month field feature in Patagonia focused on predator-prey relationships and changing habitats across several protected regions.
The primary photography would center on pumas, guanacos, Andean condors, and supporting wildlife, with time divided between two established field bases and several shorter remote shoots depending on weather, animal movement, and the conservation teams already working there.
I read the species list twice as excitement built with every detail.
Pumas moving through open mountain country, condors circling above cliffs, guanaco herds crossing landscapes completely different from the humid green surrounding me now.
The project included field access with local trackers, conservation teams, and researchers who already knew the territories.
“Oh, that's dangerous.” I whispered to the laptop as I reached for my notebook almost automatically, excitement already turning into equipment lists and logistical questions before I'd even finished reading.
I started writing as I moved through the rest of the message: cold-weather equipment, wind protection, multiple elevations, long-lens work, possible low-light tracking, backup storage requirements, publication rights, feature placement, and potential cover consideration if the project produced the right image.
Then I reached the proposed compensation and stopped long enough to read the number twice.
“…That's very dangerous.” I muttered as I underlined the rate, already mentally subtracting travel insurance, equipment servicing, additional cold-weather gear, and several other expenses while realizing I would still come out comfortably ahead.
The timing was good too. Wild Terrain's proposed start date fell several weeks after my current contract ended, which gave me enough time to go home, deal with laundry that would probably qualify as hazardous material by then, service my equipment, replace whatever needed replacing, see my family, repack, and leave again without rushing directly from one assignment into another.
There was almost nothing wrong with the offer. The pay was good, the project interested me, the planning in Caroline's initial summary looked solid, and the access was the kind of opportunity photographers spent years trying to get. It was exactly the sort of job I'd worked toward.
Then I reached the duration again.
Twelve weeks in field. Three months.