Chapter 26 Miranda
MIRANDA
The knife is heavy in my hand, slick with sweat and the grime of the swamp.
I look down at Jax. He is grey. Not the grey of the wolf, but the grey of ash in a cold fire pit. The black web of necrosis has reached his sternum. His breathing is a shallow, wet rattle that counts down the seconds he has left.
"Don't you die on me," I whisper. "The schematic isn't finished."
I don't hesitate. I place the blade against the meat of my palm, right below the thumb. I slice.
Pain flares—sharp, hot, and bright. It cuts through the panic. Blood wells up instantly, dark and rich in the dim light of the shack.
I drop the knife. It clatters to the floor.
I press my bleeding hand to Jax’s mouth.
"Drink," I command.
The blood runs over his lips, streaking his chin. He doesn't move. He’s too far gone. The liquid pools in the hollow of his throat.
"Remy!" I shout without looking up. "Hold his head up."
Remy is staring at me, his face pale, his eyes wide with horror. "Miranda, what are you doing? You can't feed a blood to a wolf. It activates the—"
"He’s dying!" I scream, my voice cracking. "My blood is the variable! My father was immune. I carry the antibody. Now help me!"
Remy stumbles forward. He grabs Jax’s hair, lifting his head.
I press my cut palm against Jax’s lips again, smearing the blood over his teeth.
"Take it," I beg. "Please, Jax. Take it."
For a heartbeat, nothing happens. The silence in the shack is absolute, broken only by the distant roar of the fire consuming the bayou.
Then, his nostrils flare.
The scent hits him. It’s not the smell of prey. It’s the smell of power.
Jax’s eyes snap open. They are clouded, milky with the poison, but the pupils blow wide.
His hand shoots up. He grips my wrist. His strength is shocking, bruising the bone.
He doesn't sip. He bites.
His teeth scrape against my skin, his tongue lapping frantically at the wound. He sucks hard, pulling the blood from my veins. It hurts. It feels like he’s draining the marrow from my bones, but I don't pull away.
I watch the veins in his neck.
The black lines of the silver poisoning stop spreading. They shudder, then begin to recede, fading from necrotic black to bruised purple, then to nothing. The grey pallor leaves his skin, replaced by a flush of fever-heat.
"Holy shit," Remy whispers. "It’s working. The rot... it’s reversing."
Jax gasps, releasing my wrist. He falls back against the table, his chest heaving. The milky film clears from his eyes, leaving them burning with a terrified, feral clarity.
He looks at me. He tastes the blood on his lips.
"Miranda," he chokes out. His voice is a growl, deep and vibrating with a frequency that rattles the jars across the shelves.
He scrambles backward, pushing himself away from me until he hits the wall. He’s shaking, his muscles bunching and releasing in violent spasms.
"Get her out," he roars at Remy. "Now!"
"Jax?" I reach for him.
"Don't touch me!" He bares his teeth. His canines are descending, sharp and white. "The silver... it’s gone, but the Wolf... he’s too loud. He’s tasted it. He knows what you are."
He clutches his head, digging his fingers into his scalp. "I can't hold him back. I’m going to hurt you. Remy! Get her out of here!"
Remy moves. "Come on, Miranda. We have to go. If he goes feral in here—"
He grabs my arm, trying to pull me toward the door.
"No," I say.
I plant my feet. Remy tugs, expecting me to move easily. I don't budge.
I look at Remy’s hand on my arm. A surge of irritation spikes in my chest—hot, territorial, and absolute.
Let go.
I shove him.
I don't mean to use force. I just mean to break his grip. But the strength that flows through my arm is explosive.
Remy flies backward. He hits the opposite wall with a crash that cracks the dry wood. He slides down, staring at me, his mouth agape.
"I said no," I state. My voice is calm. Cold. “Leave us, Remy. Go. Join the others.”
I stare at my hands. The cut on my palm is already closing. The skin is knitting together before my eyes.
I turn back to Jax.
He is pressed into the corner, his body rigid, sweat pouring off him. He looks at me with terror. He thinks he’s a monster. He thinks he’s going to tear me apart.
"You aren't going to hurt me," I say, stepping closer.
"You don't know that!" he yells, his voice distorting into a snarl. "I’m losing the man, Miranda. The iron won't work. Nothing works. The beast wants to consume you."
"Then let him," I say.
I stop at the edge of the table.
"I remember the lore," I whisper, my eyes locked on his. "My father... he survived because he had a Mate. The bond completes the soul. It heals the body."
I reach for the hem of my shirt—the oversized flannel soaked in mud and his blood.
"What are you doing?" Jax’s breath hitches.
"Fixing the engine," I say.
I pull the shirt over my head and drop it to the floor. I shimmy out of my jeans. I kick them away.
I stand before him, naked in the flickering light of the lantern. The air is cold, but my skin is burning.
Jax stops breathing. His gaze rakes over me, hungry and desperate. A low, vibrating sound starts in his chest. It’s not a threat. It’s a purr. A dark, heavy sound of possession.
"Miranda," he groans. "Don't. I’m not... I’m not safe."
"I don't want safe," I say. "I want the Wolf."
I climb onto the table. I crawl toward him on my hands and knees.
The smell of him is overwhelming—cedar, blood, and raw, unchecked testosterone. It floods my system, drowning out the fear, drowning out the logic.
"Wolves don't hurt their mates," I whisper, stopping inches from him. "You can destroy the world, Jax. You can tear the throat out of every hunter in this swamp. But you won't hurt me."
"I’m feral," he warns, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard the wood splinters. "I won't be gentle. I won't be kind."
"Good."
I reach out. I cup his face. His skin is scorching hot. His beard scrapes my palms.
"Claim me," I order. "Finish it."
He shudders. A war is raging behind his eyes—the man fighting the beast, the protector fighting the conqueror.
I lean in.
I press my mouth to his.
I kiss him. I taste the copper of my own blood still lingering on his tongue.
That breaks him.
The man vanishes.
Jax’s body goes rigid. A growl tears its way out of his throat, loud and terrifying. His hands leave the table and seize my waist. His grip is bruising, possessive, inescapable.
He pulls back just an inch.
I look into his eyes.
The amber is gone. The pupil is gone.
His eyes are solid, molten gold. Two burning coins of pure instinct.
The beast has taken the wheel.