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.
