Chapter 29 Jax
JAX
The sound of her howl doesn't just echo in the trees; it vibrates in the marrow of my bones.
I am standing amidst the wreckage of the Hunter squad, my fur matted with blood that isn't mine, my chest heaving like a bellows. The Wolf is usually a solitary creature in the kill, focused only on the next throat, the next threat. But right now, the Wolf isn't looking at the enemy.
He is looking at her.
Miranda stands on the fallen log, silhouetted against the dying fires of the bayou. She is naked, painted in mud and crimson, her hair a wild halo around a face that has lost all trace of the terrified girl who arrived at Belle Rêve.
She looks like a goddess of ruin.
The silence that follows her howl is absolute. The gunfire stops. The screaming stops. Even the fire seems to quiet down, cowed by the sound of a predator that shouldn't exist.
I look at my Pack.
To my left, Remy is clutching his bleeding shoulder, staring up at her. His wolf eyes are wide, the pupils blown. Next to him, Vance—who wanted to trade her to the vampires—slowly lowers his muzzle.
They smell it. I know they do.
The wind shifts, carrying her scent across the battlefield.
It ain't the smell of a Leech anymore. It ain't just the smell of an Alpha. It’s the smell of Old Magic.
It smells like the stories the Elders tell around the fire when the whiskey runs low—stories of Silver, of power that breaks the rules.
Vance drops to his belly.
One by one, the Wolves of the Roux Pack lower themselves into the mud. It ain't a surrender. It’s an acknowledgment. They see the gold in her eyes. They feel the weight of her command.
She is the heir. And tonight, she is the Queen.
Even the shadows at the edge of the tree line ripple with fear.
I see the pale, aristocratic faces of the Duval scouts—the ones Matilde sent to watch the slaughter.
They are backing away, their movements jerky, their unnatural stillness broken by the lizard-brain urge to run.
They know what she is now. And they know they can't stop her.
"Fall back!"
The scream tears through the reverence of the moment.
Gregor.
He’s standing on the rise of the levee, fifty yards away. He’s the only one not looking at Miranda with awe. He’s looking at her with the frantic, bug-eyed terror of a man watching his theology burn to ash.
"Kill the witch!" Gregor shrieks, leveling his rifle. "Open fire, you cowards! She’s the devil!"
His men don't move. They are broken. They look at the woman who just tore a man’s throat out with her bare hands, and they look at the pack of wolves rising from the mud to stand beside her, and they do the math.
They drop their guns.
It starts with one man throwing his rifle into the water. Then another. Then the whole line breaks.
"No!" Gregor roars, striking the man nearest him with the butt of his weapon. "Stand and fight!"
But the rout has started. The Hunters turn and flee, scrambling down the back side of the levee, heading for the deep water of the canal.
Bad move.
I growl, a low rumble that vibrates the ground. They forgot about the net. They blocked the canal to keep us in. Now, they’ve trapped themselves with the things that live in the dark water.
Miranda steps down from the log. She looks at me. Her eyes are burning, two violet stars flecked with my gold. She nods at the levee.
Finish it.
I don't need to be told twice.
I launch myself forward. I am a black streak of violence cutting through the smoke. I hit the base of the levee and scramble up the incline, my claws tearing deep gouges in the earth.
Gregor sees me coming.
He drops his rifle. It’s useless against me now; I’ve already taken three silver rounds to the chest and spit them out as the mating magic knit my flesh back together.
He reaches behind him. He grabs the nozzle of a heavy tank strapped to his back.
A flamethrower.
"Burn, you mutt!" he screams.
He pulls the trigger.
A jet of liquid fire arcs toward me, bright orange and smelling of napalm.
I don't stop. I don't weave. The Wolf is done playing with its food.
I hit the dirt, sliding under the stream of fire. The heat singes the fur on my back, a sharp, stinging kiss, but my momentum carries me forward.
I slam into his legs.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and metal. Gregor hits the mud hard, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze. I’m on top of him instantly, my paws pinning his chest, my jaws snapping inches from his face.
He smells like sour sweat and lighter fluid.
He fumbles for the nozzle again, trying to aim it at point-blank range.
I stomp his hand. Crunch. The bones in his wrist shatter. He screams, dropping the weapon.
I grab the straps of the fuel tank with my teeth. I plant my front paws on his shoulders, digging in until I feel the collarbone give, and I pull.
Metal shrieks. Nylon tears.
With a violent jerk of my neck, I rip the entire tank assembly off his back. The straps snap, whipping him in the face. I toss the metal canister aside. It hits a rock and ruptures, spilling fuel into the mud, useless.
Gregor is defenseless. He stares up at me, his eyes wide, reflecting the monster he tried to hunt.
I lean down. I let a line of drool hit his cheek. I want him to know how close he is to the end. I want him to feel the breath of the swamp he tried to burn.
"Jax!"
Miranda’s voice cuts through the red haze.
I look up.
She’s standing at the bottom of the levee. She isn't telling me to stop. She’s pointing toward the canal.
I look.
The retreating Hunters have hit the water. They are wading chest-deep, trying to reach the boats on the other side of the net.
Then the water starts to boil.
A scream pierces the night—high, wet, and abrupt.
A massive tail breaks the surface, thrashing violently. Then another.
The gators. The ancient, armored kings of the bayou. They’ve been waiting out the shelling, hungry and agitated by the vibrations. Now, dinner has jumped right into their living room.
"Help me!" a Hunter screams, disappearing under the black water with a splash.
"Oh God, something has my leg!"
The water turns frothy and red.
Gregor hears it. He goes pale, the fight draining out of him like oil from a cracked pan.
I look back down at him. I could kill him. I could snap his neck right here. It would be easy. It would be satisfying.
But the swamp is doing the work for me.
I step off him. I transform.
The shift is smoother this time, fueled by the residual magic of the bond. I stand over him, human, naked, and terrifying.
"Get up," I grate out.
Gregor scrambles backward, crab-walking in the mud. "You... you’re demons."
"We’re the landlords," I snarl. "And your lease is up."
I grab him by the collar of his tactical vest and drag him to the very edge of the levee. I point at the canal, where his men are being pulled under one by one.
"Look," I command. "Look at what you bought with Matilde’s money."
Gregor stares at the massacre. He starts to shake. "I... I was doing God’s work."
"God don't live here," I say, shoving him away. "Go. Run into the water. Take your chances with the reptiles."
He looks at me, then at the water, then back at the swamp. He realizes he has nowhere to go. He collapses to his knees, sobbing.
I turn my back on him. He’s broken. He’s done.
I walk down the levee toward Miranda.
The Pack is gathering around her. They are in human form now—naked, bloodied, exhausted—but they are forming a protective circle. Remy is there, clutching his shoulder, grinning through the pain. Alpha LeBlanc is wiping his machetes on his jeans, looking at Miranda with a calculating respect.
She stands in the center of them, unashamed of her nudity, unbothered by the blood drying on her skin. She looks at me as I approach.
The gold in her eyes flares. The connection between us pulls taut, a steel cable vibrating with triumph.
My Mate.
I reach her. I grab her at her waist and pull her against me. She feels solid. Real. She buries her face in my neck, inhaling deeply.
"We held the line," she whispers against my skin.
"You held the line," I correct, kissing the top of her blood-matted hair. "You saved us."
The fires are dying down. The screams in the water are fading. The silence of the swamp is returning, reclaiming its territory.
It’s over. We won.
I look over Miranda’s head at the cabin. It’s a wreck—door gone, walls perforated—but it’s still standing.
The sound of a slow, rhythmic clapping cuts through the humid air.
Clap... Clap... Clap.
The Pack freezes. The wolves stiffen, turning toward the sound.
I spin around, pulling Miranda behind me, the iron spike already in my hand.
Standing on the ruined porch of my cabin, illuminated by the flickering light of a dying floodlight, is a woman.
She is pristine. Her white coat is spotless, contrasting sharply with the mud and gore covering the rest of us. Her blonde hair is swept up in an elegant, timeless style. She looks like she just stepped out of a ballroom, not a war zone.
Matilde Duval.
She stops clapping. Her lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her dead, shark-like eyes.
"Bravo," she says, her voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing. "A truly inspired performance. I haven't seen violence like that since your mother tried to run, Miranda."
She steps down onto the first stair, her heels clicking on the wood.
"But the intermission is over," she says, her fangs descending slowly, glistening in the dark. "Now, the real show begins."