Chapter 9 Miranda
MIRANDA
The empty plates sit between us like a demilitarized zone.
Outside, the swamp is throwing a tantrum. Rain lashes against the cypress logs, a relentless, percussive rhythm that should be soothing but sounds more like shrapnel hitting a hull. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of rendered animal fat, rosemary, and the heavy, damp wool of drying clothes.
I watch Jax.
He’s leaning back in his chair, nursing a tumbler of dark amber liquid that smells like gasoline and burnt oak. One hand rests on the table, the knuckles scarred and rough. He isn't looking at me. He’s watching the fire in the stove through the grate, his eyes reflecting the flames.
I’ve spent three days terrified of him. Three days calculating my escape and weaponizing household objects. But the data points are shifting.
A cruel man doesn't cook a steak to a perfect medium-rare for a prisoner. A monster doesn't give up the only bed because his captive has an injury. He’s abrasive, yes. He’s violent—I’ve seen the way he handles that axe—but the violence has a governor on it. It’s controlled. Precise.
"Stop staring," he rumbles, not turning his head. "You're looking at me as if I’m a puzzle with a missing piece."
"I’m recalibrating," I say, picking up my water glass. "Trying to reconcile the 'big bad wolf' profile with the man who just seasoned my potatoes with fresh thyme."
He snorts, taking a sip of the whiskey. "Wolves appreciate flavor, chérie. We ain't savages. Just efficient."
My eyes drift back to his neck. To the scar.
It’s a jagged, ugly thing. The tissue is raised and shiny, cutting through the scruff on his throat like a lightning strike frozen in flesh. It disappears under the collar of his flannel shirt.
"Who did it?" I ask again. "You didn't answer me before."
He sets the glass down. The liquid ripples. He turns to face me, and the firelight catches the blazing gold in his eyes, making them look molten.
"A Duval," he says flatly.
I stiffen. "Which one?"
"Does it matter? They all bite the same." He runs a thumb over the ridge of the scar, a subconscious movement. "I was ten. Maybe eleven. It was during the last skirmish, before the Truce was solid. My father was holding the line at the bridge. I thought I could help. Thought I was big enough."
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s a dry, scraping sound. "I wasn't."
"Ten years old," I whisper. I try to imagine a ten-year-old version of him—scraped knees, oversized paws, thinking he was invincible. "That’s... that’s a war crime."
"It’s nature," he corrects. "Predators don't check ID for age requirements. The leech caught me straying too far from the pack. Tore my throat out. Left me for dead in the mud."
"But you healed," I say, looking at the silver mark.
"Barely. Vampire venom acts like acid to us. It burns the healing factor out. My father found me. He... he had to bleed me to get the poison out." Jax looks back at the fire. "He carried me three miles through the swamp. Didn't put me down once."
The image hits me hard—the desperate father, the bleeding boy, the oppressive heat of the bayou. It’s a stark contrast to the cold, velvet silence of Belle Rêve.
"Is that how you became Alpha?" I ask. "Because of the war?"
"I became Alpha because he died," Jax says. The words are heavy, dropping like lead weights. "Two years later. Hunters. Not Duvals. Humans with high-powered rifles and silver-tipped rounds. They caught him in the shift. He didn't stand a chance."
He picks up the whiskey again, draining it in one swallow. "I was twelve. I had to step up. The Pack was scattering, scared. Someone had to hold the center."
"Twelve," I repeat. I shake my head. "You were a child. You should have been worrying about math homework and... I don't know, baseball. Not leading an army."
"We grow up fast out here. You don't get to be a child when you're food for the neighbors." He pours another two fingers of whiskey. "I took the weight. I held the line. And I made sure nobody in my Pack went out like he did."
He looks at me, and the intensity of his gaze makes the air in the room feel thin.
"Tell me a story," I say suddenly. The silence is too heavy; I need to fill it with something else. "About him. Your dad."
Jax blinks, surprised. "What?"
"You talk about him like a monument," I say. "Talk about him like a man. What was he like?"
Jax’s expression softens. The tension around his eyes loosens just a fraction. "He was... loud. Laughed so hard it shook the windows. He liked bad jokes and good whiskey. He couldn't cook worth a damn—burned water. That was my Mémère’s job."
"He sounds..." I search for the word. "Solid."
"He was the anchor," Jax agrees. "You would have liked him. He had a thing for strays."
"He must be proud of you," I say softly. "Holding it all together. Keeping them safe."
Jax looks down at his hands. "I don't know about that. I’m just trying to keep the roof from caving in."
"Well," I say, forcing a brightness into my voice that I don't feel, "at least you had a roof to start with. I don't even know who my parents were. I assume they were prone to bad decision-making, considering they left a baby in a fire station in December."
I laugh, reaching for my water. "I guess that explains my affinity for broken things. Genetics."
Jax doesn't laugh. He leans forward, invading the neutral space between us. The scent of him—cedar, whiskey, and that underlying heat—rolls over me.
"Don't do that," he says.
"Do what?"
"Deflect. You make a joke every time something hurts. It’s a shield."
"It’s an efficient coping mechanism," I counter, tightening my grip on the glass. "Humor reduces cortisol levels."
"Why clocks, Miranda?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You fix clocks. You obsess over 'em. You organize my tools. You count seconds when you're scared. Why?"
I look at the Christmas lights strung above us—cheap, flickering little stars in the gloom.
"Because clocks make sense," I say quietly. "Gears have rules. If Cog A turns, Cog B moves. There’s no ambiguity. No lies."
I trace the rim of the glass with my finger. "The foster system... it’s chaos. Entropy in action. You don't know where you're sleeping next week. You don't know if the new dad drinks or if the new mom locks the pantry. You have zero control over your own timeline."
I look at him. "But a clock? If I fix the mainspring, it ticks. If I align the escapement, it keeps time. It was the one thing in my life where, if I did the work, I got the expected result. I could control the time, even if I couldn't control anything else."
Jax is staring at me. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are burning.
" Control," he murmurs. "Is that what you think you're doing here? Counting ticks to control the fear?"
"I’m trying to keep the machine from flying apart," I admit. "Because if I stop fixing things, if I stop organizing... I might just realize how terrifying this actually is."
He reaches across the table. His hand covers mine.
It’s a shock to the system. His palm is rough, calloused, and impossibly hot. My hand disappears beneath his.
"You ain't alone in the chaos, Miranda," he says. His voice is low, a rough velvet slide against my nerves. "You got me."
I look at our hands. Pale skin against bronze. Mechanic against Wolf.
It defies logic. We are enemies. We are different species. I am a prisoner in his house. And yet, looking at him right now, with the rain hammering the roof and the firelight dancing on his scar... I feel a pull.
It’s not just gravity. It’s magnetism. It feels like two gears that have been grinding separately suddenly snapping into alignment.
"I feel like I know you," I whisper. The admission slips out before I can filter it. "That doesn't track. We met three days ago. But... it feels like I’ve known you forever."
Jax’s thumb brushes my knuckles. A spark, literal and hot, jumps between us.
"Maybe time don't work the way you think it does," he says softly. "Maybe some things are written before the clock starts ticking."
The air between us grows heavy, charged with something I can’t describe. I can smell him—really smell him—and I don't just smell the cedar. I smell the man. I smell the loneliness under the Alpha posturing.
I lean in, drawn by a force I can't name. He leans in too. His gaze drops to my mouth.
"Jax..."
Zzzzt.
A sharp, electric crack splits the air.
The string of Christmas lights flares once—blindingly bright—and then dies. The hum of the refrigerator cuts out.
Pitch blackness swallows the room.
"The generator," I say, my voice sounding too loud in the sudden void. "The fuel line must have—"
"Quiet," Jax hisses.
His hand tightens on mine, crushing my fingers.
The silence inside the cabin is absolute, terrifyingly deep. The only sound is the rain, and underneath it... nothing.
"Jax?"
"It didn't fail," he whispers from the dark. "Someone cut the line."