The old woman would have approved. She had wanted this for the land, for the cabin, for the creature who came after her. She had wanted love and laughter and the kind of fierce, protective devotion that these Alphas offered so freely.
She had gotten it. My human had gotten it.
And I had gotten a pack of my own.
I rumbled, low and satisfied, and let my eyes drift closed. The sounds of their voices washed over me like warm water, familiar and beloved. The loud one's music started up again, something soft and slow, and my human began to hum along, her voice blending with his in a harmony that made my old bones ache with something like joy.
This was good. This was right. This was the way things were supposed to be.
The sun sank below the tree line. The stars emerged, one by one, scattered across the darkness like scales on dark water. The frogs began their evening chorus, and the fireflies danced among the trees. I stayed where I was, basking in the warmth of my rock and the warmth of my pack, and let the night wrap around melike a blanket. I closed my eyes, felt the rumble of contentment vibrate through my chest, and slept knowing this home was finally, perfectly, complete.
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 inhis 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 whenhe 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.
