Chapter 8 Jax
JAX
The dripping faucet is silent.
For three years, that faucet has kept a steady, rhythmic beat in the silence of the swamp. Drip. Drip. Drip. It was part of the cabin’s noise, like the settling wood and the wind in the cypress.
Now, it’s fixed.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Miranda dismantle my toolbox on the kitchen table. She’s organized my wrenches by size. My screwdrivers are lined up like soldiers. She’s even coiled the loose wire that’s been sitting on the counter for six months.
It’s annoying as hell.
It’s also impressive.
"You got a compulsive need to organize everything, or you just trying to drive me crazy?" I ask. This is what I get back after being out for a few hours.
She doesn't look up. She’s scrubbing a patch of rust off my heavy shears with a piece of steel wool. "Chaos is inefficient, Jax. If you need a Phillips head in an emergency and you have to dig through a drawer of junk, you lose seconds. Seconds equal casualty rates."
"It's a screwdriver, not a trauma kit," I grunt.
I push off the doorframe and prowl into the room. The cabin feels smaller with her in it. Every time she moves, the air currents shift, carrying that confusing, maddening scent of hers—brass polish and blood-sugar—right to my nose.
The Wolf is restless today. It’s pacing behind my ribs, scratching at the sternum. Today is day three. Three days of breathing her air. Three days of sleeping five feet away from her, listening to her heart change rhythm when she dreams.
It’s a deep, dull ache in my groin and a sharp tension in my jaw. I want to bite her. I want to mark her skin so the Duval stink is gone forever.
"We need a tree," she announces.
I stop mid-stride. "A what?"
"A tree. Or at least some garland. Lights." She gestures around the cabin with the shears. "It’s Christmas in nine days. This place looks like a serial killer’s hideout."
"It is a killer’s hideout," I drawl. "I kill things. I hide here. Accurately labeled."
"Well, it’s depressing," she snaps, setting the shears down. She turns to face me, hands on her hips. She’s wearing one of my old flannel shirts, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
It swallows her frame, making her look small and breakable.
"If I’m going to be a prisoner of war, I demand holiday cheer. "
"No."
"Yes."
"Miranda, I ain't dragging a pine tree through the mud just so you can hang popcorn on it."
"Then get the box," she says.
I narrow my eyes. "What box?"
"The one under the loose floorboard in the pantry. I saw you checking it yesterday. It’s labeled 'XMAS.' Don't try to lie to me, I saw the dust patterns."
She’s too observant. It’s dangerous.
"No decorations," I state flatly. "We’re in a siege situation. Tinsel ain't a priority."
She glares at me, violet eyes flashing behind those glasses. "You need to lighten up. Seriously. You walk around here with a face like thunder and a stick up your ass. Or maybe it’s a sugar cane, considering the location. Is that a Louisiana thing?"
My jaw works. "What did the sugar cane do to you to deserve that comparison?"
"It’s stiff. It’s fibrous. And it’s seemingly impossible to remove." She crosses her arms. "Get the box, Jax. Please. I need... I need to fix the room. If I can't leave, I need to change the inside. I need distraction or I’ll die not by vampire hands but by my own mind."
Her voice cracks on the last word. Just a hairline fracture, but I hear it. She’s scared. She’s holding it together with mechanics and sarcasm, but she’s vibrating with anxiety.
I stare at her for a long second. The Wolf whines, wanting to comfort her. The human just wants her to stop staring at me like that.
"Fine," I growl.
I stomp to the pantry, rip the floorboard up, and haul out the battered cardboard box. I slam it onto the table. Dust motes dance in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window.
"Knock yourself out," I say.
She beams. It’s a genuine smile, bright and sudden, and it hits me in the chest.
She tears into the box like a kid. It’s mostly junk—tangled lights that probably don't work, a few wooden ornaments my Mémère carved, and a dented tin star.
She spends the next hour stringing the lights along the rafters.
I lean against the counter, drinking coffee, watching the way her body stretches as she reaches up.
The flannel shirt rises, showing a sliver of pale skin at her hip.
My eyes lock onto it. I trace the line of her hip bone with my gaze, wondering if her skin tastes as sweet as she smells.
"I can't reach the center beam," she says, breaking my trance.
She’s standing on the chair, stretching onto her tiptoes, holding the tin star. She’s still a foot short.
"Short genes," I comment, setting my mug down.
"Design flaw," she corrects, straining. "If I had your excessive pituitary output, this wouldn't be an issue. Do you think you're God's gift to verticality or something?"
I walk over to her. "I’m a gift to my parents," I say dryly. "They tried for years. Didn't think they’d get a kid. Then they got me. Lucky them."
She rolls her eyes, looking down at me. "Right. Main character energy. Just... help me."
I step up behind the chair.
I don't need to climb it. I just reach up. My chest brushes her back.
The contact is electric.
Miranda freezes. Her breath hitches, audible in the sudden silence. I can smell the spike in her arousal—wet heat and sugar—mixing with the sudden spike in her fear.
I reach over her shoulder, taking the star from her hand. My arm brushes hers. My skin is burning hot; hers is cool. The contrast makes my nerves fire.
I enclose her hand with mine for a second longer than necessary. Her fingers are delicate, bone and tendon, easily crushed. But I don't want to crush. I want to consume.
"Right here?" I rumble. My mouth is inches from her ear.
"Yes," she breathes. Her voice is barely a whisper.
I nail the star into the soft wood of the beam with my thumb. I’m surrounding her. I’m looming, boxing her in with my size. The Wolf is screaming Mine. Bite. Claim.
The air feels thick, charged with static. If I turn her around... if I pull her off that chair...
I step back abruptly.
"Done," I say, rougher than I intended.
I turn my back on her and walk to the door. My hand dives into my pocket, fingers closing around the raw iron spike.
I squeeze.
I grind the jagged metal into my palm until the skin splits. The sharp, hot sting of iron slicing into meat cuts through the haze of lust. It grounds me. It reminds me of who I am and what she is.
"Dinner," I choke out. "I'm making steaks."
Two hours later, the cabin smells of seared beef and rosemary.
I put the plate in front of her. It’s heavy. A massive ribeye, rare, swimming in juice, with a pile of roasted potatoes.
"Eat," I command.
She looks at the plate, then at me. " Jax, this is... this is a lot of protein."
"You're too thin," I say, sitting opposite her with my own plate. "You look like a stiff breeze would snap you in half. You need mass."
I watch her cut into the meat. It’s red in the center. Good.
She takes a bite, chews, and sighs. Her eyes close. "Oh my god."
"Edible?"
"Jax," she points the fork at me. "This is engineering perfection. The Maillard reaction on the crust is flawless. The internal temperature is precise."
Her she goes again with her machine-speak. Too science-cy for me.
She eats with a voracious intensity that satisfies something deep in my lizard brain. I like feeding her. I like watching her take what I provide. It’s a proprietary feeling—keeping her alive, keeping her fueled.
"It’s so different from the rat stew," she mumbles around a mouthful of potato. "I mean, the nutria was... sustenance. But this is actual food."
I pause, cutting a piece of my steak. I look at her from under my brows.
"You really believed that?"
She stops chewing. "Believed what?"
"That it was rat."
She swallows hard. "You said it was nutria. River rat."
I shake my head, fighting the urge to smile. "It was lamb, Miranda. Slow-roasted leg of lamb."
Her jaw drops. "You... you lied?"
"I hate to interrupt you," I shrug. "You seemed so proud of your 'scavenger' resilience. Didn't want to ruin the moment."
"You let me eat lamb thinking it was a rodent?" She looks indignant, her cheeks flushing pink. "That is psych warfare. That is data manipulation!"
"Tasted good though, didn't it?"
"That's not the point!" She stabs a potato aggressively. "I was mentally preparing myself for parasites."
I chuckle. It’s a rusty sound, unused to being brought out in mixed company. "You're gullible for a genius, chérie."
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the tension dial turned down from 'dangerous' to 'simmering.' The fire crackles in the stove. The Christmas lights cast a soft, warm glow on the rough wood. It feels... domestic.
Too domestic.
I finish my steak and push the plate away. I catch her staring at me.
She’s not looking at my eyes. She’s looking at my neck. At the jagged, silver-white burn scar that runs from my ear down to my collarbone. It’s an ugly thing. Raised keloid tissue that never tanned, never healed right because it was made with dark magic.
Most people look away. She’s studying it like it’s a broken gear she wants to understand.
"What?" I ask, wiping my mouth.
She doesn't flinch. Her gaze lifts to mine, violet meeting amber.
"Who did that to you?" she asks softly.