Chapter 19
MIRANDA
The sound of a gunshot in a confined space is deafening.
It’s not a bang; it’s a concussion that slaps against the eardrums and rattles the teeth.
Jax doesn't hesitate. He kicks the back door open, leveling his handgun at the sky. The drone hovers in the mist, its red eye blinking a steady, rhythmic threat.
Crack.
The shot goes wide. The drone jinks left, a sudden, jerky movement that defies standard aerodynamics. It’s being piloted by someone with reflexes, someone anticipating the trajectory.
Crack. Crack.
He fires again. The third bullet clips a rotor. The machine spins wildly, emitting a high-pitched mechanical scream, and smashes into the mud ten yards from the porch.
"One down," I whisper, my hands gripping the doorframe.
"Not enough," Jax growls.
He doesn't lower the gun. He tracks the tree line.
A low, synchronized hum vibrates the air. Two more shapes rise from the cypress canopy. They are sleeker, faster than the first. They split up, banking hard—one left, one right—flanking the cabin in a pincer maneuver.
"They’re triangulating," I say, the analysis automatic even as fear spikes my adrenaline. "They’re setting up a crossfire zone."
Jax curses. He fires at the left one, but it climbs rapidly, out of range of the handgun.
"Too fast," he snaps. He drops the magazine, ejecting it, but he doesn't reload. He tosses the gun onto the porch floorboards.
"Jax?"
"Go inside, Miranda. Bolt the door."
"What are you doing?"
He doesn't answer. He vaults over the railing, clearing the stairs entirely. He lands in the mud with a heavy, wet thud.
He doesn't stop moving. He tears his shirt open, buttons popping and scattering like hail. He kicks off his boots.
And then, physics breaks.
I’ve seen it once before, through a rain-streaked windshield in a moment of panic. But seeing it now... seeing it from ten feet away... it stops my breath.
It’s violent. It’s not magic; it’s biology rewriting itself in real-time. His spine arches, cracking audibly as vertebrae expand and realign. Muscles tear and knit back together with a wet, sickening sound. Fur erupts from his skin, black as oil.
He falls forward onto his hands, but by the time they hit the mud, they are paws. Massive, clawed, lethal paws.
The Wolf shakes its massive head, a spray of rainwater flying from its ruff. He is enormous. A creature of shadow and muscle, built for nothing but the hunt.
He launches himself.
He doesn't run; he explodes from a standstill. He hits the first pylon of the cabin and uses it as a launchpad, scrambling up the wood with terrifying verticality. He leaps from the roof edge, intercepting the low-flying drone on the right.
His jaws snap shut around the chassis.
Crunch.
Metal crumples. Sparks shower down like fireworks. The Wolf twists in mid-air, spitting the wreckage into the swamp, and lands on all fours with a grace that shouldn't belong to something that heavy.
The second drone buzzes, climbing higher, trying to retreat.
The Wolf tracks it. His amber eyes glow in the gloom. He paces the ground, waiting, calculating.
The drone pilot makes a mistake. He dips the machine, trying to get a sensor lock on me standing in the doorway.
That’s all the Wolf needs.
He springs. It’s a kinetic marvel, a release of stored energy that launches him twelve feet into the air.
His claws hook the drone’s landing strut.
He drags it down, his weight slamming it into the earth.
He tears into it, ripping circuitry and plastic apart with savage efficiency until the humming stops.
Silence returns to the swamp.
I stand frozen on the porch. My hands are shaking, but not from cold.
He is magnificent.
He stands over the ruin of the machine, chest heaving, steam rising from his black coat. He turns his head. Those gold eyes lock onto mine.
I should be terrified. He is a monster. An apex predator capable of tearing through metal.
But I don't feel fear. I feel a strange, vibrating resonance in my own chest. A hum in my blood.
Do I have that? I wonder, my hand drifting to the birthmark sitting on my neck. Is there a creature like that sleeping inside my DNA? Is that what Matilde is so afraid of?
The Wolf trots toward the stairs. He moves silently now, the mud barely shifting under his weight. He climbs the steps and stops in front of me.
He is huge. His head is level with my chest. I can smell him—wet fur, iron, and the deep, earthy scent of the bayou.
I reach out.
My fingers sink into the thick ruff around his neck. The fur is coarse, wire-tough, but warm.
He leans into my touch. He presses his massive head against my stomach, a heavy, solid weight. A low rumble starts in his chest—a purr that is deep enough to rattle my ribs.
"You're safe," I whisper, the words slipping out.
He huffs, hot breath dampening my shirt.
Then, an image flashes in my mind. This powerful, beautiful creature, broken and bloody in the mud. Silver bullets tearing through this fur. Matilde’s magic burning him from the inside out.
My stomach twists into a cold knot. He is strong, yes. But he isn't invincible. My father was an Enforcer—stronger than an Alpha—and they killed him. They mutilated him.
"Jax," I choke out.
He pulls back. He looks at me, sensing the shift in my pheromones. The distress.
He turns and trots back down the stairs. He disappears behind the generator shed.
A moment later, Jax walks out. He’s human again, naked, wet, and streaked with mud. He doesn't seem to care about the nudity. He walks to the wrecked drone closest to the porch and crouches down.
I limp down the stairs, grabbing the flannel shirt I discarded earlier to wrap around myself.
"What is it?" I ask.
Jax is prying something off the twisted metal of the drone’s body. It’s a plastic canister, taped to the underside.
He rips the tape. He pulls out a rolled-up piece of heavy parchment.
"A message," he says, his voice flat.
He stands up and hands it to me.
I take it. The paper is thick, expensive. Cream-colored linen stock. Duval stationery.
I unroll it.
There are two things written on the page.
The first is typed in stark, black ink.
“His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire.” — Matthew 3:12
"Cleansing fire," I whisper. "Gregor’s touch."
"Keep reading," Jax says. He’s staring at the tree line, his jaw tight enough to snap.
Below the verse, in elegant, flowing handwriting that looks like it belongs on a wedding invitation, is a personal note.
My Dearest Niece,
History is a wheel. It turns and turns, and the same tragedies repeat for those too foolish to learn from them. Your mother thought she could hide in the mud. She thought a Wolf could save her.
I can still hear her screaming. It was a lovely sound.
Come home, Miranda. Or I will burn the swamp until the water boils, and I will mount your Wolf’s head on my wall right next to his father’s.
— Aunt Matilde
The paper slips from my fingers. It flutters into the mud.
I can't breathe. The air in my lungs feels solid, unmoving.
She killed her.
It wasn't just a nameless mob. It was Matilde. She watched her sister burn and enjoyed it. And now she’s threatening to do the same to Jax.
I look at him.
He’s scanning the perimeter, naked and muddy, holding a hunting knife he pulled from the debris. He’s ready to die for me. He’s ready to stand between me and an army of fanatics funded by a monster.
And he will lose.
The math is simple. The probability is stark. Trucks of equipment. A net across the river. Thermal scopes. And a vampire queen who has already killed an Enforcer.
If I stay, the wheel turns. History repeats. Jax dies. The Pack dies.
Guilt crashes over me, heavy and suffocating. I brought this here. I brought the fire to his doorstep. I invaded his home, ate his food, and painted a target on his back.
"She’s going to kill you," I whisper.
Jax turns to me. He steps closer, his muddy hands gripping my arms. "She’s trying to scare you. It’s psychological warfare. Don't let your mind get corrupted."
"It’s not a scare tactic, Jax. It’s a statement of intent." I look at the scar on his neck—the one a Duval gave him when he was a child. "She mounts heads on her wall. She burned my mother alive."
"And she won't touch you," he vows. "Not while I'm breathing."
"That's exactly the problem," I say, my voice breaking. "She’ll stop your breathing to get to me."
I pull away from him. I can't stand the heat of his touch right now. It feels like I’m burning him by proxy.
"We need to go inside," he says, glancing at the sky. "They know the drones are down. They’ll send a ground team."
He herds me up the stairs.
I walk into the cabin, but my mind is miles away. I’m running calculations. I’m looking at the variables.
Variable A: I stay. Jax fights. Jax dies.
Variable B: I surrender. Jax lives. I die.
Survival instinct screams at me to choose Variable A. But looking at his broad back as he locks the door, looking at the way he favors his left leg where the transformation torque hit him hard...
I can't do it. I can't be the reason he becomes a trophy on a wall.
I sit on the bed, watching him check the window shutters.
"Get some rest," he says without turning around. "I’ll take first watch."
"Okay," I lie.
I lie down, pulling the blanket up. I close my eyes, mimicking the rhythm of sleep.
But under the blanket, my hand finds the handle of the knife he gave me. The cold steel presses against my palm.
I wait. I wait for his breathing to deepen. I wait for the Wolf to settle.
If I leave, I take the target with me. If I leave, the siege ends.
I stare at the dark ceiling, tears tracking hot lines into my hair.
I have to fix this.