Slow nods from all three, Harper's deliberate and solemn, Remy's quick but sincere, Silas's barely perceptible but there nonetheless, his pale eyes never leaving my face.
"What about the town?" Silas spoke up, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "People are going to notice. People are going to talk." He pushed off from the wall, taking a step toward the center of the room, his pale eyes meeting mine. "Three Alphas courting one Omega isn't exactly subtle." He pointed out, his jaw tight.
"Let them talk." I said it firmly, lifting my chin. "I've been the subject of gossip my whole life. The swamp witch's niece. The strange girl who lives alone in the bayou with a nine-foot alligator." I shrugged one shoulder. "People are going to think what they're going to think. I'm not going to hide what we are just because it makes them uncomfortable." I held his gaze, challenging him to argue.
Something shifted in his expression—approval, maybe. Respect.
"I don't mind." Harper said slowly, his massive shoulders relaxing slightly, his dark eyes warming. "Let them know you're claimed. Let them know you're protected." A hint of Alpha possessiveness crept into his voice, his scent thickening in the small room—cedar and moonshine. "Might keep the trouble away." He added, his lips quirking.
"Or bring it running." Remy muttered, but there was no real concern in his voice, his fingers drumming absently against his thigh. "Either way, I'm not ashamed of this." He looked at me,his amber eyes warm, his scent drifting toward me—river water and honey, sweet and wild. "Not ashamed of you. Of us." He amended, glancing at the other two with something that wasn't quite hostility anymore.
"There's another thing." I said, before I could lose my nerve. "The three of you need to spend time together. Without me." I watched their reactions—Harper's frown, Remy's raised eyebrows, Silas's careful blankness. "I'm serious. If this is going to work long-term, you can't just tolerate each other when I'm around. You need to actually know each other." I waved a hand vaguely. "Go fishing. Get drunk. Whatever it is men do to bond." I finished, watching them process this.
"You want us to be... friends?" Remy sounded like I'd asked him to swallow a live frog, his nose wrinkling in distaste, his amber eyes darting between Harper and Silas like he was trying to imagine sharing a beer with them and failing spectacularly.
"I want you to be pack." I said it quietly, letting the word hang in the air. "That's what this is, isn't it? That's what we're building? Not three separate relationships with me at the center, but something bigger. Something where you're connected to each other, not just to me." I looked at each of them in turn. "Because someday I might not be here to be the glue. Someday you're going to need each other. And if you've never bothered to build something between yourselves..." I trailed off, letting them imagine the alternative.
The silence stretched, but it was different now—thoughtful rather than tense.
"She's right." Silas said finally, his voice grudging, his pale eyes narrowing slightly. "Unit cohesion. Can't rely on just one point of connection." He looked at Harper, then at Remy, his gaze assessing. "Doesn't mean I have to like you. Just means I have to trust you." He finished, his jaw tight.
"I can work with that." Harper nodded slowly, his massive shoulders squaring as he turned to face Silas fully, his dark gaze meeting the other man's pale eyes. "Trust is earned. We can start there." He extended a hand toward Silas—not offering a handshake, just acknowledging him as an equal, his calloused fingers spread in a gesture of openness.
Silas studied the gesture for a moment, his pale eyes flickering between Harper's outstretched hand and his face, some internal calculation happening behind that unreadable expression. Then he inclined his head slightly in acceptance, the dog tags at his throat swinging gently with the movement.
"Well." Remy looked between them, something shifting in his expression, curiosity replacing wariness. "If you two are having a moment, I guess I should probably join in." He stood up and walked over to where they were standing, positioning himself so that all three formed a loose triangle. "I'm not gonna pretend I don't find both of you irritating as hell." His lips quirked into something that was almost a real smile. "Artemis is right. Pack means something. Means watching each other's backs even when you want to kick each other's asses." He held out his hand, palm down, in the center of their triangle.
Harper looked at it for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable, the muscle in his jaw working as he processed the gesture. Then he placed his massive hand over Remy's, dwarfing it completely, his calloused palm warm and steady.
Silas hesitated longer than the others, his jaw working, some internal battle playing out behind his pale eyes as he stared at the two hands stacked together. Then, slowly, deliberately, he added his scarred hand to the pile, his fingers curling slightly as if the contact cost him something.
Something warm bloomed in my chest, watching them. Three men who'd been strangers, then rivals, now standing in my living room making a silent promise to each other.Harper's massive hand covering Remy's, Silas's scarred fingers completing the stack. It wasn't perfect—I could see the tension still lingering in their shoulders, the wariness in their eyes, the way they held themselves like men expecting a fight. It was a start. It was more than I'd dared to hope for.
"Well." I said, my voice slightly rougher than I intended, emotion clogging my throat. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever seen." I pressed a hand to my chest, only half-joking.
"Don't get used to it." Harper rumbled, pulling his hand back, but there was warmth underneath the gruffness, his dark eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.
"Seriously." Remy agreed, stepping back and running a hand through his curls. "That was deeply uncomfortable and I'm going to need at least three beers to recover." He looked toward my kitchen hopefully, his amber eyes pleading.
"I have moonshine." I offered, standing and heading toward the cabinet where I kept Marguerite's old bottles. "One of the Fontenot moonshine recipes, actually. A client gave it to me as payment for a reading last year." I pulled out the jar, watching Harper's expression shift at the mention, something soft flickering behind his dark eyes.
"That's Mémère's recipe." He said quietly, his voice rough with memory, his massive hands curling against his thighs. "My grandmother's. She taught me how to make it before she passed." He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly, grief and warmth tangled together in his expression.
"Then we should drink to her." I said softly, grabbing four glasses and carrying them back to the living room, the glass cool against my palms. "To the woman who taught you." I poured generous measures for each of them, the moonshine catching the lamplight like liquid amber, then a smaller one for myself.
"To... whatever this is." Remy raised his glass, looking around at the group with something like wonder in his ambereyes. "May it not blow up in our faces." He added with a crooked grin.
"Inspiring." Silas said dryly, but he raised his glass anyway, his pale eyes holding something that might have been amusement, his scarred hand steady around the moonshine, the dog tags at his throat catching the lamplight.
"To pack." Harper said simply, his deep voice resonant in the small room, his dark eyes moving to each of us in turn—Remy, Silas, and finally settling on me with a warmth that made my chest ache.
"To pack." I echoed, raising my glass to meet theirs, feeling the weight of the moment settle over us like a blessing, and we all drank.
The moonshine burned going down—smooth but potent, with a hint of honey underneath the fire that made my eyes water. I watched as three sets of shoulders relaxed slightly, as the sharp edges of tension began to blur, as the room seemed to breathe easier with each swallow.
"So." Remy settled back onto the couch, this time in the middle instead of the far end, his long legs stretching out. "What now? Do we braid each other's hair? Share our deepest fears?" He looked at me with raised eyebrows, his dimples appearing as his usual humor crept back.
"Now we eat." I said, standing and heading toward the kitchen. "I made gumbo. And before you ask, yes, it's my aunt's recipe. Yes, it's probably better than yours." I threw the last part over my shoulder at Remy, who clutched his chest in mock offense.
