Chapter 6 Jax
JAX
The swamp is loud tonight.
Usually, the cicadas and the bullfrogs create a wall of sound that I find comforting, a chaotic rhythm that drowns out the static in my head. But tonight, the noise is grating. It scratches against my eardrums like sandpaper.
I shove the flat-bottom boat onto the mud bank and tie it off to a cypress knee. My boots sink into the muck, the suction heavy and familiar. I’m carrying a canvas sack of supplies—coffee, bread, first-aid kit, and a fresh block of ice for the box.
My meeting with the Pack didn't go well.
“She’s a Duval, Jax,” Beau had said, his eyes wide and spooked. “Matilde put the word out an hour ago. Claimed a ‘beloved niece’ wandered off in a trauma-induced fugue state. She’s offering fifty grand for her safe return. No questions asked.”
Fifty grand. Enough to fix the boats. Enough to buy heat for the elders for a decade.
And it’s a lie. Matilde Duval don't have a beloved bone in her desiccated body. She wants the girl back so she can finish whatever ritual she started at dinner.
“We keep our mouths shut,” I’d told them, using the Alpha tone that vibrates the sternum of anyone standing too close. “Nobody talks. Nobody claims that money. She ain't here.”
They listened, but I could smell the greed and the fear on them. It smelled like sour milk.
I stomp up the wooden stairs to the cabin. The humidity is hovering near one hundred percent. My shirt is stuck to my back, and the scar on my neck is itching—a deep, phantom burn that warns me magic is active nearby.
I unlock the heavy padlock on the door.
Miranda is sitting exactly where I left her, on the bed, her injured leg propped up. She’s holding the pipe wrench in her lap like a security blanket.
She looks up when I enter. Her face is pale, stripped of makeup, leaving her looking sharp and exhausted. Those violet eyes track me, calculating, assessing the threat level.
I drop the canvas bag on the table. The thud shakes the floorboards.
"You went shopping," she says. Her voice is dry, flat. "Did you pick up a hostage negotiation manual while you were out?"
I ignore the sarcasm. I’m too wired. The Wolf is pacing inside my ribcage, agitated by the scent of the Pack and her.
I cross the room in two strides, invading her personal space. I need to know. I need to be sure before I risk my Pack for this creature.
"Stand up," I command.
"I can't," she snaps. "My ankle is injured. My joint—"
I grab her upper arms and haul her up. She gasps, dropping the wrench with a heavy clang. She puts her weight on her good leg, her hands gripping my biceps to steady herself. Her fingers are small, cold.
I lean in, burying my face in the curve of her neck.
She stiffens, her breath hitching, but she doesn't pull away.
I inhale.
It’s a mess. A sensory disaster.
There’s the smell of the bayou—mud and algae. There’s the smell of the antique clock oil she must use, a sharp scent of brass and solvent. And under that... the Rot. The Duval stench. It’s faint, fading like old perfume, but it’s there. It smells like dried lilies and funeral parlors.
"You reek of them," I growl against her skin. The vibration of my voice makes her shiver.
I pull back, staring down into those unnatural eyes. "Matilde says you're her niece. She says you're family. You smell like the Crypt. Tell me why I shouldn't throw you back to them. Tell me you ain't a spy sent to mark my den."
"I am not a spy!" she shouts, shoving at my chest. It’s like shoving a brick wall, but I admire the effort. "I told you, I didn't know they were vampires until they tried to eat me! I thought they were just eccentric rich people with a vitamin D deficiency!"
"Liar," I spit. "You carry their blood. You carry their stink."
"I can't help my genetics," she argues, her voice rising. "But I am not one of them. Look at me! Do I look like I have superpowers? I can barely walk."
"They heal fast," I counter. "Maybe you're just playing the long game. Waiting for me to lower my guard so you can open the door for the rest of the coven."
She stares at me, her chest heaving. I can hear her heart. It’s beating fast—thump-thump-thump—a frantic, erratic rhythm.
Vampire hearts beat slow. Once every few seconds. Like a reptile waiting to strike.
Hers is racing.
"You want proof?" she asks, her voice trembling with anger.
She reaches for the canvas bag I dropped. Before I can stop her, she grabs the small paring knife I bought for cutting fruit.
"Don't," I warn.
She doesn't listen. She draws the blade across the pad of her index finger. A quick, sharp slice.
"Dammit, woman!" I grab her wrist, twisting the knife out of her hand and tossing it across the room.
But the damage is done.
Blood wells up.
The scent hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s not the dusty, dead smell of a vampire. It’s rich. It’s hot. It smells like copper and sugar and life. It floods my nose, coating the back of my throat. My pupils blow wide, the world shifting into high-contrast focus.
Mate.
The Wolf howls in triumph. She bleeds. She is ours.
I fight the urge to lick the cut. I fight it with every ounce of discipline I have. I grip her wrist, staring at the wound.
It bleeds. And it keeps bleeding.
If she were a Duval, the skin would already be knitting together. The cells would be regenerating before the blood hit the floor. But the cut stays open. A red drop falls, splashing onto my boot.
"See?" she demands, thrusting her hand closer to my face. "No magic healing. No rapid regeneration. Just pain and a risk of tetanus. Look at my leg, too! Are you satisfied?"
I stare at the blood. My anger drains away, replaced by a cold, hard dread.
She’s human. Or human enough.
"You shouldn't have done that," I say, my voice rough. I release her wrist like it burned me. "Blood draws predators out here. You ring the dinner bell, you don't get to complain when the gators come."
"I didn't have a choice," she says, wrapping her finger in the hem of her shirt. "You weren't listening to the truth. You were operating on prejudice."
"Prejudice keeps me alive," I mutter. I turn away, running a hand through my hair. "It don't change the fact that you're a Duval. Your blood might be red, but your name is poison."
"Then explain it to me," she pleads. She hops back to the bed and sits down, taking the weight off her leg. "Stop treating me like someone you want to erase and treat me like a person. What are you? You talk about them like you're a different species."
I look at her. She’s terrified, but she’s holding it together with duct tape and spite.
"I am a different species," I say.
I walk to the window, looking out at the fog. "I’m a Werewolf, Miranda. A Shifter. A loup-garou. Pick a word."
I wait for the scream. I wait for the hysteria.
A small, thoughtful noise. "Hmm."
I turn around. "Hmm? I tell you I can turn into a monster and eat you, and you say 'hmm'?"
"It tracks," she says. She’s looking at me, analyzing. "The size. The aggression. The smell of wet dog. The excessive body heat. And the glowing eyes."
"I don't smell like wet dog," I snap.
"You absolutely do," she corrects. "And the howling... wait." Her eyes widen behind her glasses. "The thing on the road. The massive shadow I swerved to avoid. That was you."
"Yeah," I say. "That was me on patrol."
"You're the dog," she says. It’s a statement of fact.
My hackles rise. "I ain't a dog."
"Technically, Canis lupus and Canis lupus familiaris share 99.9% of their DNA," she says, slipping into that detached, lecture mode. "So, yes. Dog."
"A dog is a servant," I growl, stepping closer. "A dog begs for scraps. A dog wears a collar and licks the hand that beats it. I am a Wolf. I hunt. I kill. I answer to no one."
"Being a dog isn't an insult," she says, unphased by my posturing. "Dogs are loyal. They’re useful. They’re cute. People love dogs. They let them sleep in the bed."
"Cute?" I stare at her in disbelief. "You think I'm cute?"
"I think you're furry," she says, looking me up and down with a clinical eye. "And you have four legs. So, dog."
"Stupid, four-legged creature," I mutter, shaking my head. "That’s what you see."
"You were four-legged when I saw you," she points out. "And you were standing in the middle of the road in the fog. Which, for the record, is not a sign of high intelligence."
"I was guarding the line!" I roar. "To keep things like you out!"
She flinches, and I rein it in. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of cedar to clear the blood-smell from my nose.
"Look," I say, dropping into the chair opposite her. The wood creaks under my weight. "It’s simple history. Vampires came here three hundred years ago. They drained the land. They treat humans like cattle. My ancestors... we were the immune response. We hunt them. They hunt us. We’ve been killing each other over this mud for centuries. "
"And the dinner?" she asks. "Matilde said something about a truce."
"The Truce of the Longest Night," I explain. "Old magic. Strong magic. Twelve days before the Winter Solstice—Christmas, whatever—no blood can be spilled between the factions. If a Wolf kills a Vamp, the magic burns him from the inside out. If a Vamp kills a Wolf, they turn to dust."
"So I'm safe," she says, her shoulders dropping an inch. "You can't kill me. And they can't kill me."
"I can't kill you," I agree. I leave out the part about her being my Mate. That’s a complication she ain't ready for.
"But that don't mean you're safe. The Duvals want you back. If I let you go, they’ll grab you before you hit the parish line. And once they get you inside Belle Rêve... the Truce ends on Christmas. They’ll drain you dry the second the clock strikes twelve. "
"So I'm a prisoner," she says. Her voice is quiet.
"Protective custody," I correct. "I can't kill you because of the Truce. And I can't let you go because they’ll kill you. And if they kill you, they get whatever Matilde is after. So you stay here."
"That’s a logic loop," she says, rubbing her temples. "If A, then B. If not A, then C. The outcome is always death or captivity."
"Welcome to the swamp, chérie," I say. "Survival ain't about fair. It’s about who has the bigger teeth."
She opens her mouth to argue, probably to hit me with more of that her logic that makes my brain itch.
Awooooooo.
The sound rips through the night air. It’s mournful, long, and terrified.
I freeze. That’s not a patrol howl. That’s a warning.
I’m on my feet in a second, moving to the window. I peer through the slats of the shutters. The fog is glowing faintly in the distance—UV lights. Hunter tech. Or maybe Duval magic.
"What is it?" Miranda asks. I can hear the hitch in her breath. She’s reaching for the wrench again.
I turn back to her. The playfulness, the banter—it’s gone. The Wolf is at the surface now.
"That was Remy," I say, checking the load on the shotgun by the door. "They found the car."
I look at her, and for the very first time, I let her see the fear I’m trying to hide.
"They know you're here."