Chapter 21 Miranda
MIRANDA
Time has mass today. It’s heavy, dragging against the second hand of my watch, stretching the minutes until they feel like hours.
The sun is going down. I can’t see it directly because of the plywood Jax nailed over the windows, but I can feel the shift in the cabin’s temperature.
The stifling, humid heat of the afternoon is bleeding away, replaced by a damp chill that seeps through the floorboards.
Slivers of dying light cut through the gaps in the wood, painting jagged orange stripes across the dust motes dancing in the air.
It’s Christmas Eve.
The world outside is holding its breath. There are no birds. No crickets. Even the wind has died down, leaving the swamp in a vacuum of silence that rings in my ears.
I stand at the rough-hewn table. My hands are busy because if they stop moving, they start shaking.
I pick up a small branch of cypress Jax tracked in earlier—a piece that snagged on his boot. It’s green, smelling of sharp pine and wet earth. I tie a piece of red ribbon from the decoration box around it.
I place it in the center of the table, right next to the shotgun.
The contrast is jarring. The festive greenery against the matte black steel of the weapon. Life and death, sitting side by side.
"It’s crooked," Jax says from the shadows.
He’s sitting in the corner near the door, sharpening his machete. The shhhk-shhhk sound of the whetstone has been the soundtrack of the afternoon.
I nudge the branch two millimeters to the left. "Better?"
"Perfect," he rumbles.
I look around the cabin. The string of lights we hung days ago is dead without the generator, but the tin star is still nailed to the beam. The wooden ornaments his grandmother carved are sitting on the mantel. It looks like a bunker trying to dress up for a party.
"I used to love this night," I say quietly, my fingers tracing the needles of the cypress branch. "At St. Agnes... that was the orphanage before I aged out... we didn't have much. The budget was always tight. But on Christmas Eve, the sisters would let us stay up late."
Jax stops sharpening. The silence stretches, waiting for me to fill it.
"We’d make chains out of construction paper," I continue, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
"And we’d peel oranges just to put the rinds on the radiator so the room smelled like citrus instead of bleach and floor wax.
It wasn't a Hallmark movie. The toys were donated and usually broken. But..."
I look at him. He’s watching me with those amber eyes, intense and unblinking.
"It was ours," I finish. "For one night, we weren't just case numbers. We were a unit. We had hot cocoa, and we had each other."
"You were happy," Jax states.
"I was safe," I correct. "Happiness is a variable. Safety is a baseline requirement."
I look down at the shotgun. "This might be my last Christmas, Jax. The statistical probability of us surviving the night is... low."
"Don't do the math, Miranda," he warns, his voice dropping.
"I have to. It’s how I process." I walk around the table, closing the distance between us. I stop in front of him. He looks up, the machete resting on his knee. "But even if the probability hits zero... this is the best one."
He frowns, a crease appearing between his brows. "We’re trapped in a box waiting for a siege. How is this the best?"
"Because I have the truth," I whisper.
I reach out, my hand hovering over his shoulder before settling there. The muscle is hard, tense as a coiled spring.
"For twenty-six years, I thought I was garbage," I say, the tears stinging my eyes. I blink them back. "I thought I was abandoned because I was defective. But you gave me the answer. You told me about Silver. About Céleste. You gave me the knowledge that I was loved enough to be saved."
Jax sets the machete on the floor. He stands up. The movement is fluid, unfolding his massive frame until he towers over me.
"You gave me closure," I say, looking up into his face. "And you gave me this." I gesture to the cabin, to the grim preparations, to him. "I found family, Jax. I don't mean the vampires at the plantation. I mean you."
His jaw works. The scar on his neck twitches, flushing dark against his skin.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. The way he looks at me—like I’m something fragile and precious that he’s terrified of breaking—says it all.
He reaches into the pocket of his jeans.
"Hand," he commands.
I hold out my hand, palm up.
He places something heavy and cold into it.
I look down. It’s the railroad spike.
The iron is rough, pitted with rust and age. It’s warm from his body heat. I stare at it, feeling the weight of it press into my skin. I know what this is. I know what it means. This is his anchor. This is the only thing that keeps the Wolf from tearing his mind apart when the rage gets too loud.
"Jax," I breathe. "I can't take this. You need it."
"I don't need it anymore," he says roughly.
He closes my fingers over the iron, his large hand enveloping my fist.
"It grounds me," he explains, his thumb rubbing over my knuckles. "When the magic gets too loud, the iron burns it out. It reminds me I’m human."
He steps closer, his chest brushing mine.
"But it ain't the iron keeping me sane right now," he murmurs. "It’s you. You ground me, Miranda. You're my anchor."
The air leaves my lungs.
"Keep it," he says. "If the magic comes... if Matilde tries to get in your head... you squeeze it. You focus on the metal. Don't let them in."
I nod, clutching the spike against my chest like a talisman. "I promise."
The tension in the room shifts. It softens. The sharp edge of the coming violence dulls, replaced by something warmer, deeper.
Jax sinks down onto the floorboards, his back against the wall. He pulls me down with him.
We sit there in the gathering dark, legs tangled together. He pulls me into the cradle of his body, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist like steel bands.
I lean my head back against his shoulder. I can feel the steady, heavy thud of his heart. It’s not racing like it was yesterday. It’s strong. Resolved.
"Tell me a story," I whisper. "About the swamp. Before the war."
"There’s always been a war, chérie," he rumbles, his cheek resting against my hair. "But before the nets... the fishing was good. We used to take the boats out to the delta. The water is so clear there you can see the gars sleeping in the mud."
He talks. He tells me about the smell of wild jasmine in July. About the way the mist rolls off the water at dawn. About the quiet dignity of the Pack.
I listen, soaking up the vibration of his voice. I hold the iron spike in one hand and grip his forearm with the other.
For a moment, the boarded windows don't matter. The army waiting in the dark doesn't matter. The world shrinks down to this: the heat of his skin, the smell of cedar and rain, and the steady beat of a heart that beats for me.
It is the most peace I have ever known.
Jax shifts. He turns my face toward him.
In the gloom, his eyes are burning gold. Not with the feral hunger of the Wolf, but with the fierce, possessive devotion of the Man.
"Miranda," he breathes.
He lowers his head.
His lips brush mine. Softly. Surprisingly so.
It’s not the bruising, desperate collision of the shower. It’s a question. A promise. It’s a seal on the vow he made to protect me.
I melt into him. I open my mouth, inviting him in, tasting the coffee and the unique, electric taste that is just Jax. I kiss him back with everything I have—all the gratitude, all the fear, all the love I haven't been brave enough to say out loud.
He hums against my lips, his hand coming up to cup my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear.
"Merry Christmas, mignonne," he whispers against my mouth.
"Merry Christmas, Jax."
The moment stretches, perfect and crystalline.
BOOM.
The world shatters.
The ground jumps beneath us. The cabin shakes violently, dust raining down from the ceiling beams. The sound of the explosion rolls over the swamp like a physical wave, deep and bone-rattling.
"The bridge," Jax roars, already moving.
He shoves me behind him, scrambling to his feet, the shotgun snapping into his hands before I can even blink.
Then, the sound changes.
From the east, cutting through the echo of the explosion, comes a sound that chills my blood.
Awooooooo.
It’s a howl. But it’s cut short. It turns into a yelp of pain.
Then another. And another. A chorus of screams rising from the darkness.
"They breached," Jax says, his face a mask of savage fury. "They blew the perimeter."
He racks the shotgun. Clack-clack.
"Get the knife and gun, Miranda," he orders, his voice devoid of the tenderness from seconds ago. "The Longest Night just started."