"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 goldin the early morning light. I leaned my head against his shoulder and breathed him in—pine and rain and something that was justSilas.
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 bytheir mingled scents. This.Thiswas 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 tookcommand 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.
