No answer. The front door stood slightly ajar, but I wasn't about to walk into a stranger's home uninvited.
I was about to call out again when I felt it.
Someone was watching me.
The sensation prickled across my skin like static electricity, raising the fine hairs on my arms. I turned slowly, scanning the tree line, the enclosures, the shadows between buildings.
Nothing. No one visible. The feeling persisted—that weight of attention, heavy and focused. Like being watched through a rifle scope.
"I know you're there." I kept my voice steady, refusing to show the unease crawling up my spine. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need help with this hawk." I held up the bundle in my arms as evidence.
Silence stretched for one beat, two, three.
Then a man stepped out of the shadows beside the aviary like he'd been part of them all along.
My breath caught.
He moved like smoke—fluid and silent, each step deliberate and controlled. Tall, but not massive like Harper. Lean muscle built for speed rather than power, visible through the thin fabric of his worn gray t-shirt. Dark hair cropped military-short, a few days of stubble shadowing a jaw that could cut glass. Skin tan from hours in the sun, hands scarred and capable.
It was his eyes that stopped me cold.
Pale gray, almost silver in the afternoon light. Sharp and assessing, taking in every detail with an intensity that felt almost predatory. They swept over me once, twice, cataloging and dismissing threats with the efficiency of someone who'd been trained to spot danger.
His scent hit me a moment later—rain and wet moss, like the bayou after a storm. Ozone, sharp and electric. And underneath it all, something wild and feral that made my hindbrain sit up and pay attention.
Alpha. But different from Harper's quiet loneliness or Remy's honeyed charm. This one felt dangerous. Controlled, yes, but dangerous all the same.
"What happened to her." It wasn't a question. His voice was rough, like he didn't use it often, each word clipped and precise.
"Fishing line." I held out the hawk, still wrapped in my flannel. "Found her at the edge of my property this morning. Wing's broken, I think. She's lost a lot of blood." I watched his face for any reaction, any softening.
He closed the distance between us in three long strides, his movements silent on the gravel. Up close, I could see more details—a scar that ran from his left temple into his hairline, faded but still visible. The slight tension in his shoulders, like he was always ready to move. The way his eyes never quite settled, constantly scanning even as he reached for the hawk.
"Give her to me." He held out his hands, and I noticed the calluses on his palms, the old burns on his forearms. Working hands. Fighter's hands.
"Carefully." I transferred the bundle into his arms, watching the way he cradled her—firm but gentle, supporting the broken wing without jostling it. "She's scared." I stepped back to give him room.
"She's dying." He said it flatly, without emotion, already turning toward the main building. "Come." He walked away without checking to see if I'd follow.
I followed.
Inside, the building was organized chaos—shelves of medical supplies, cages of various sizes, the smell of antiseptic and animal musk. He led me through to a back room that was clearlyset up as a veterinary station: a steel examination table, bright overhead lights, drawers full of instruments.
He set the hawk down on the table and began unwrapping my flannel with quick, efficient movements. The bird stirred weakly, trying to snap at his fingers, and he dodged without even looking.
"Hold her head." He jerked his chin toward the hawk, already pulling on surgical gloves. "Keep her still." He opened a drawer and pulled out scissors, antiseptic, a syringe.
"I've never—" I started.
"You found her." He cut me off, his voice brooking no argument. "You brought her here. Now help." He loaded the syringe with something from a small vial.
I moved to the head of the table and carefully placed my hands on either side of the hawk's skull, holding her steady while he injected something into her breast. She went limp almost immediately, her golden eye sliding closed.
"Sedative." He answered my unspoken question, already cutting away the tangled fishing line with precise, careful movements. "She won't feel this." He worked in silence for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration.
I watched him work. His hands were steady, methodical, each movement purposeful. No wasted energy. No hesitation. He cleaned the wounds, set the wing with a splint, applied bandages with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
"You're good at this." I kept my voice quiet, not wanting to break his concentration.
