Chapter 12 Jax
JAX
Sleeping on wet porch floorboards is a young man’s game, and I ain't a young man anymore.
I wake up stiff, my neck craning at a bad angle against a sack of potting soil I used for a pillow. The sun is barely up, bleeding a bruised purple light through the cypress trees, but the heat is already rising. It pulls the moisture out of the wood, turning the air into a sauna.
I sit up, my spine popping in three places. I run a hand over my face, feeling the grit of yesterday’s storm and the rough stubble on my jaw. I feel like hell.
But I smell like heaven.
The scent of her—that sweet vanilla and sharp brass—is still clinging to my skin from where I held her in the mud. It’s burned into my pores. Even the swamp funk can't cover it.
I look at the cabin door. It’s still bolted from the inside.
I stand up, stretching until my shoulders crack.
The Wolf is restless this morning, pacing circles in my chest. It didn't like being locked out.
It wanted to be inside, curled around the little mechanic, keeping her warm.
Instead, I spent the night staring at the dark, gripping the metal spike in my pocket every time I thought about breaking down the door.
A low hum cuts through the morning silence.
I freeze, head snapping toward the water. It ain't a car. It’s the deep, throaty chug of an outboard motor running low.
I move across the porch, watching the mist curl off the bayou. A flat-bottom skiff cuts through the duckweed, the wake disturbing a heron that takes flight with a harsh croak.
It’s Remy.
I let out a breath, my shoulders dropping an inch.
I walk down the stairs to the dock, my boots heavy with mud. I glance back at the cabin window. The shutters are closed. Miranda is either asleep or pretending to be. I don't want her hearing this.
Remy kills the engine and drifts into the pylon. He tosses me the rope without a word. I tie it off.
My Beta looks wrecked. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he smells like stale coffee and ozone-sharp stress. He steps onto the dock, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Morning, Boss," he says. His voice is gravel-rough, quiet.
"Remy." I nod toward the boat. "You look like you went ten rounds with a gator."
"Feels like it," Remy spits into the water. "I hate to break this to you, Jax. The situation worsened."
I cross my arms, the muscle in my jaw jumping. "Tell me."
"It ain't just a squad anymore," Remy says grimly. "We thought Matilde hired a team. She didn't hire a team, Jax. She rented a battalion. We counted four transport trucks moving down the old logging road on the east levee an hour ago."
I stiffen. "Four? That road barely holds a pickup."
"They’re moving heavy equipment. Generators. Floodlights. And they ain't just watching the perimeter. They’re closing it."
Remy steps closer, his voice dropping. "They dropped a net across the main canal. Steel mesh. Nothing bigger than a trout gets in or out. They cut the supply line to the lower bayou."
"They’re laying a siege," I growl. The realization sits heavy in my gut. "Starve us out."
"It’s worse. They got thermal drones up. The twins tried to make a run for provisions this morning, and they took fire from three hundred yards out. Rubber bullets this time, but next time it’ll be silver."
I grip the pylon, the wood groaning under my hand. "Gregor is getting bold."
"Gregor is getting rich," Remy corrects. "We saw the crates they were unloading. High-grade UV emitters. Military surplus. Matilde is pouring everything she has into flushing this girl out."
"She knows Miranda is here with us," I mutter. "There’s something she wants from her, aside from the usual draining of her blood for supper. Fuck, leeches."
"The Pack is scared, Jax," Remy says, meeting my eyes. "They can’t fish. They can’t hunt. The elders are saying we’re bleeding for a stranger. They’re asking if she’s worth it."
My hand dives into my pocket. I grip the iron spike, squeezing until the jagged metal bites into my palm. The pain is sharp, familiar. It keeps the growl from ripping out of my throat.
"They question my loyalty?" I ask, my voice dropping to a dangerous subsonic rumble.
"They question the math," Remy says gently. "One girl versus the livelihood of the whole parish. We hold the line because you say so, but if the food runs out... loyalty gets expensive."
"Tell them to hold," I say, pushing off the pylon. "Tell them this ends on Christmas."
"That’s nine days away, Jax. A lot of bullets can fly in nine days."
"Just hold the line, Remy."
He nods, untying the rope. "Watch the sky. Those drones are quiet."
He pushes off, the engine sputtering to life. I watch him disappear into the fog, the wake slapping against the pylons.
I’ve got a war in my hands.
I turn toward the cabin. The silence is gone. Now, all I hear is the ticking clock of a bomb counting down.
I take the stairs two at a time.
I unlock the bolt. Miranda is standing by the stove, holding the cast iron skillet like a shield. She’s wearing my flannel shirt again, her hair a chaotic halo of platinum blonde. She looks tired, but her eyes are sharp, tracking me the second I step inside.
She lowers the pan when she sees it’s me. "I heard the boat."
"Remy," I say shortly. I lock the door behind me, throwing the heavy deadbolt and the secondary latch.
"I figured." She leans against the counter, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the cast iron handle. "The vibe is wrong, Jax. The air pressure changed. What did he say?"
I walk to the table. I need coffee. I pour a cup from the percolator on the stove. It’s sludge—thick, black, and bitter.
"Matilde doubled down," I say, taking a sip. "We knew she was paying Gregor. We didn't know how much."
Miranda stiffens. "How much?"
"Enough to buy a siege," I say, turning to face her. "They didn't just send a few guys to watch the house, Miranda. They brought in four trucks of heavy gear. They netted the canal. They got drones in the air with thermal imaging."
She pales, her knuckles turning white on the skillet. "Thermal? They can see our heat signatures?"
"Through the walls," I confirm. "They know exactly where we are. They ain't attacking yet because they’re waiting for us to make a mistake. Or starve."
"That’s... excessive," she whispers. "For one person? It’s statistically disproportionate."
"It’s desperate," I correct. "She’s throwing every dollar the Duvals have at this swamp to make sure you don't survive the week."
Miranda sinks into the chair. "I thought the Hunters were just... local rednecks with guns. You make them sound like a paramilitary unit."
"Gregor has always been a fanatic," I say, setting the cup down. "But now he’s a well-funded fanatic. That makes him dangerous."
I watch her process this. I see the gears turning in her head, calculating odds, looking for a mechanical solution to a tactical problem. But there is no fix for this. There’s just endurance.
"We’re pinned," she says finally. "We can't leave. The river is blocked. The woods are full of sensors."
"We’re dug in," I correct. "Big difference."
I walk over to my gear bag in the corner. I dig past the ammo boxes and pull out a sheath. Inside is a hunting knife—six inches of carbon steel, razor-sharp, with a weighted handle. It’s old, reliable. My father gave it to me.
I walk back to her.
"Stand up."
She stands, wary.
I take her hand and press the handle into her palm. It’s heavy. Too big for her, but she grips it instinctively, her fingers curling around the leather.
"Jax?"
"Listen to me," I say, staring into her violet eyes. "The rules changed. They ain't probing anymore. They’re preparing to breach. It might be tonight. It might be Christmas Eve."
"This isn’t the Christmas I was expecting. I don't even know how to fight," she says, her voice trembling.
"You don't need to know form. You need to know intent." I close my hand over hers, trapping the knife between us. "If I go down... if the Wolf can't stop them... you don't surrender. You hear me? Gregor don't take prisoners. And Matilde won't give you a quick death."
I squeeze her hand hard enough to bruise.
"You use this," I order, my voice rough with the weight of the command. "You aim for the soft spots. The neck. The gut. The femoral artery. You fight dirty."
"Jax—"
"And if you can't fight," I whisper, leaning in until our foreheads touch, breathing her air, "if they corner you and there’s no way out... you use it on yourself."
She shudders, a violent tremor that runs through her whole body. Her breath hitches, warm against my lips.
"Do not let them take you back to Belle Rêve," I rasp. "Promise me."
She stares at me, terror and determination warring in her eyes. She looks at the knife, then back at me.
"I promise," she whispers.
"Good." I step back, the loss of contact leaving me cold. "Keep it on you. Even when you sleep. Especially when you sleep."
I turn away to check the window, gripping the iron spike firmly in my pocket, praying to a God I haven't spoken to in years that she never has to use it.