"Practice." He didn't look up, his attention fixed on his patient. "Lots of practice." He secured the final bandage and stepped back, surveying his work. The hawk lay still on the table, her chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. The wingwas immobilized, the wounds cleaned and dressed. She looked... peaceful. For the first time since I'd found her.
"Will she make it?" I asked, finally releasing my hold on her head. He was quiet for a long moment, those silver eyes fixed on the unconscious bird.
"Maybe." He stripped off his gloves and tossed them in a bin. "Fifty-fifty. Depends on how much blood she lost. Whether infection sets in." He moved to a sink and began washing his hands. "Come back in a week. I'll know more then." He dried his hands on a worn towel, still not looking at me.
"Thank you." I meant it. "I didn't know what else to do. She was suffering." I picked up my bloodstained flannel, folding it absently.
He turned then, those pale eyes fixing on me with unsettling intensity.
"Most people would have left her." His voice was quiet, assessing. "Let nature take its course. Why didn't you?" He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.
The question caught me off guard. I thought about it for a moment, really thought about it.
"Because she was fighting." I met his gaze steadily, refusing to look away. "Even tangled up and bleeding, she was still trying to survive. Still had that fire in her eye." I shrugged, tucking the ruined flannel under my arm. "Seemed wrong to let that go to waste." I held his stare, letting him see I meant every word.
Something flickered in those silver depths. Not warmth, exactly—he didn't seem like the type for warmth—but something close to respect.
"You live on the bayou." Another non-question. "The Delacroix property." He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
"News travels fast." I raised an eyebrow, unsurprised that he knew. "The witch who talks to her alligator. I've heard the stories." I let a dry smile curl my lips.
"Not a witch." He shook his head once, a small movement. "Just different. Don't fit in the boxes people try to put you in." His voice had softened slightly, losing some of its military crispness.
I went still. Something in the way he said it—not an accusation, not a judgment. Just an observation. Like recognizing something familiar.
"Neither do you." The words came out before I could stop them. "Not really." I watched his reaction carefully. His jaw tightened. Those pale eyes flickered with something—surprise, maybe, or discomfort at being seen so clearly.
"No." He admitted after a long pause, his voice barely above a murmur. "I don't." He pushed off from the counter, moving toward the door like the conversation had gone somewhere he hadn't intended.
"I'm Artemis." I offered, not moving to follow him yet. "In case you were wondering." I stayed where I was, giving him space. He paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame. Didn't turn around.
"Silas." The name came out rough, reluctant, like he wasn't used to giving it. "Silas Boudreaux." He stood there for a moment, tension visible in the line of his shoulders.
"Thank you, Silas." I let his name roll off my tongue, tasting it. "For helping her. For not turning me away." I took a step toward the door. He did turn then, just enough to look at me over his shoulder. Those silver eyes held something complicated—wariness and curiosity and something else I couldn't quite name.
"One week." He said it like an order. "Come back in one week. I'll have an update." He held my gaze for one heartbeat, two.
"I will." I promised, meaning it. He nodded once, sharp and brief, then disappeared through the doorway. I heard his footsteps moving away—or tried to. They were nearly silent, even on the old wooden floors.
I stood alone in the makeshift veterinary room, the sedated hawk breathing softly on the table, my bloodstained shirt in my hands, and thought about pale gray eyes and the way he'd said don't fit in the boxes people try to put you in.
Like he understood. Like he knew what it was like to be something that didn't have a name.
Outside, the afternoon sun was warm on my face. I climbed into my truck and sat for a moment, processing. The scent of rain and ozone still clung to my skin, mixing with the copper smell of blood and the green smell of the bayou.
Three Alphas in two weeks. One silent and lonely, one charming and broken, and now one... what? Dangerous? Watchful? Feral in a way the other two weren't?
"Getting crowded around here." I muttered to myself, starting the engine. "The universe is trying to tell me something." I pulled out of the drive, gravel crunching under my tires.
Gumbo was waiting for me when I got home, floating in the shallows like the judgmental log he was.
"I know that look." I climbed out of the truck and walked down to the dock, sitting on the edge and letting my feet dangle over the water. "You think I'm getting into trouble." I watched the sunlight play across his scales.
He blinked slowly, his tail swishing through the water.
"You're probably right." I leaned back on my hands, staring up at the Spanish moss swaying in the breeze. "Three Alphas, Gumbo. Three." I shook my head, almost laughing at the absurdity.
One who smelled like moonshine and watched me like I was something precious. One who smelled like honey and hid his broken heart behind a beautiful smile. And now one who smelled like rain and looked at me like he was trying to decide if I was prey or predator.
