Chapter Miranda
MIRANDA
Belle Rêve was built to be a mausoleum. For two hundred years, it stood in silence, a monument to dead things and stagnant air, smelling of dried roses and secrets.
Tonight, it smells like roasted pork, gumbo, and fifty different kinds of cologne.
The dining hall is an acoustic disaster. The crystal chandelier—one of the few things that survived the fire and the looting—vibrates with the sheer decibel level of the conversation below it.
I stand near the table, bouncing slightly on my heels to soothe the bundle in my arms.
"Chaos," I whisper, scanning the room. "Absolute, unmitigated chaos."
To my left, Remy is arm-wrestling a Duval cousin named Julian.
Remy’s arm is bulging, veins popping as he strains against the vampire’s unnatural, marble-still strength.
The table groans under their elbows. A group of wolves is cheering Remy on, barking and pounding the wood, while three female vampires watch with expressions of polite, morbid fascination, sipping synthetic blood from wine glasses.
"Elbow foul," Vance shouts, pointing a chicken leg at Julian. "Check the elbow!"
"I do not foul," Julian draws, bored. He slams Remy’s hand down with a crack that shakes the silverware.
Remy howls in defeat, grinning despite the loss, and slides a twenty-dollar bill across the tablecloth.
It’s illogical. Wolves and Vampires don't break bread. They don't share space without bloodshed. The biological imperative is to kill on sight.
But they aren't looking at each other as predator and prey tonight. They are staring at the head of the table. Looking at the empty chair where the Alpha sits, and the woman standing beside it.
They’re looking at the Council.
The baby shifts in my arms, letting out a soft, gurgling noise.
I look down.
Aurore is six weeks old. She has Jax’s dark hair, a thick mop that refuses to lay flat, already hinting at the wildness in her genetics. But when she blinks up at me, the eyes are mine.
Violet. Stark, unnatural violet.
But in the center, fracturing the iris like a starburst, are flecks of molten gold.
She is the first of her kind. A born Chimera. The bridge built from the start, not forged in trauma.
"You're loud," I tell her, smoothing the velvet of her tiny dress. "Just like your father."
She blows a bubble of spit in response.
A draft of cold air sweeps through the room, cutting through the humidity and the heat of too many bodies. The heavy oak double doors at the end of the hall groan.
The room goes silent. Instincts kick in. Wolves stop chewing; Vampires go still.
The doors swing open.
Jackson Roux fills the frame.
He is covered in snow. It dusts the shoulders of his black wool coat and clings to his dark hair. He’s wearing heavy work boots that leave wet prints on the polished hardwood, and he is carrying a tree.
Not a decorative, department-store fir. He is carrying a twelve-foot Louisiana pine, roots and all, slung over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
He stops in the doorway, taking in the room—the Wolves, the Vampires, the noise that cut out the second he entered.
His eyes glow gold, scanning for threats, scanning for us.
His gaze lands on me. The tension drains out of his shoulders. A grin splits his face—wolfish, arrogant, and heart-stoppingly handsome.
"Did you kill the tree, Alpha, or did you ask it nicely?" Remy calls out, breaking the tension.
Laughter ripples through the room.
"I negotiated," Jax rumbles, his voice carrying effortlessly to the back of the hall. "It put up a fight. Almost took an arm."
He walks into the room, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. Wolves clap him on the back; Vampires nod respectfully. He ignores them all, his eyes locked on me.
He reaches the table. He drops the tree with a heavy thud that makes the floorboards jump.
"You're late," I say, though I can't stop the smile spreading across my face. "The roast is resting. The gravy is at risk."
"Traffic," he says, leaning down. He smells of cold air, pine resin, and that deep, spicy musk that is just Jax.
He kisses me. It’s not a polite hello. It’s a claim. He presses his cold lips to mine, humming with a vibration that travels straight down my spine.
He pulls back, his eyes shifting to the bundle in my arms.
His expression softens, the Alpha edge melting into something profoundly tender.
"Hey, Little Wolf," he whispers, running a large, rough finger down Aurore’s cheek.
She reaches for him, her tiny hand closing around his finger.
"She missed you," I say. "She’s been fussing for the last hour. I think she sensed you were gone too long."
"She knows her pack," Jax says, straightening up. He takes off his coat, tossing it onto a chair. Underneath, he’s wearing a white button-down that’s already straining at the shoulders. He rolls up the sleeves, revealing the thick cords of muscle in his forearms.
"Alright!" he shouts to the room. "Eat! Before the food gets cold and I have to feed you to the gators."
The noise explodes again. The feast resumes.
Jax grabs a plate, piling it high with meat, but he doesn't sit. He guides me away from the table, his hand heavy and warm on the small of my back.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"Too loud," he murmurs. "Need to breathe."
He leads me through the French doors and out onto the balcony.
The transition is jarring. One second, we are in the middle of a riotous banquet; the next, we are in the silent, expansive dark of the bayou night.
The air is crisp, unusually cold for Louisiana. The swamp stretches out before us, a tapestry of shadows and silver moonlight reflecting off the black water. The scars of the battle from a year ago are gone, covered by new growth. The levee is repaired. The fishing shack is rebuilt.
And it is snowing.
Soft, fat flakes drift down from the dark sky, melting as they hit the warm earth. It’s the same magic that fell the night we won. A reminder.
Jax leans against the railing, pulling me into his side. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady, powerful thud of his heart. Aurore is asleep now, lulled by the cold air and her father’s proximity.
"One year," Jax says quietly.
"Three hundred and sixty-five days," I confirm. "Plus the leap year calculation, technically, but who's counting."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through my shoulder. "We made it."
"We did more than make it, Jax. We rewrote the schematic." I look back through the glass doors at the party inside. "Look at them. They aren't killing each other. They’re passing the potatoes."
"They’re terrified of you," Jax says, kissing the top of my head. "That helps."
"They aren't terrified. They’re... respectful."
"They saw you tear a man’s throat out with your bare hands and then summon a snowstorm," he points out. "Respect, terror. Fine line, chérie."
"And you?" I ask, looking up at him. "Are you terrified?"
Jax looks down at me. His amber eyes are soft, liquid gold in the darkness. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of my neck.
"Every day," he whispers. "I look at you, and I look at her..." He nods at the baby. "And I’m terrified I’m gonna wake up back in that cabin, bleeding out from silver poisoning, dreaming about a life I didn't get to have."
"You aren't dreaming," I say fierce. "I fixed you. Remember?"
"Yeah. You fixed me."
He wraps his arms around both of us—me and the baby—encasing us in his warmth.
"I have something for you," he says.
"Jax, we agreed. No gifts. The tree is the gift."
"I lied."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, rectangular box wrapped in brown paper.
I shift Aurore to one arm and take it. My fingers tremble slightly as I tear the paper.
Inside is a small brass key.
It’s intricate, antique, the handle shaped like a wolf’s head.
"What is this?"
"It’s for the clock," he says. "The grandfather clock in the hall. The winding key was getting worn down. I had a new one made. Custom."
I run my thumb over the brass wolf. It’s heavy. Solid. A perfect fit for the mechanism.
"It’s beautiful," I whisper.
"It’s necessary," he says. "Maintenance."
I smile.
I hand him the baby. He takes her easily, his massive hands cradling her with a gentleness that still takes my breath away.
I look at the watch on my wrist. The 1920s Elgin. The crystal is scratched from the fight in the swamp a year ago, but I never replaced it. I like the scratches. They are data points. Evidence of survival.
I pull the stem out.
The time is 11:59 PM.
I turn the crown. The tactile resistance of the mainspring winding tight is familiar. It used to be the only thing that calmed me down. It used to be my way of imposing order on a chaotic, broken world.
Click. Click. Click.
I feel the tension build inside the mechanism. Stored energy. Potential.
I look at Jax. I look at our daughter. I look at the snow falling on a peaceful kingdom that we built out of blood and mud.
I push the stem back in.
The watch starts to tick. A steady, healthy rhythm.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
"Midnight," I say.
Jax leans down. He kisses me, and the world narrows down to the heat of his mouth and the weight of his love.
"Merry Christmas, Miranda."
I rest my hand on his chest, feeling the beat that matches my own.
For the first time in my life, I don't need to fix anything.
Everything is perfect.