I raise the wrench again. "Don't."
He stops, but he’s close enough now that I can sense the heat radiating off him. He’s burning hot, like a furnace. He looks down at me, his golden eyes tracking over my face, lingering on my mouth, then snapping to my birthmark.
His jaw tightens. A muscle feathers under the scruff.
"You got an attitude for someone barely standing," he says softly.
"And you have a terrible bedside manner for a Good Samaritan," I counter. "You look like a god, but you talk like a caveman."
The words slip out before I can filter them.
His eyebrows shoot up. "A god?"
I flush, feeling the heat rise from my neck to my hairline. "A figure of speech. You’re objectively... symmetrical. Large.Whatever. Don't let it go to your head. Your personality ruins the aesthetic."
He stares at me for a long second. The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smirk, but he kills it before it can fully form.
"Sit down," he commands, pointing to the bed. "Put the ice on the ankle."
"I'm leaving," I say, stubbornness fusing my spine. "I’m walking out that door."
"You can't walk far," he points out. "And even if you could, the Truce line is five miles that way." He points vaguely into the fog. "Between here and there is nothing but mud, gators, and about fifty Duval vampires waiting for you to stick your head out so they can finish what they started."
"Why would they wait?" I ask. "If they want me, why don't they just come here?"
"Because they can't," he says. "Not while I'm breathing."
"Are you..." I hesitate, looking at his eyes again. The gold. The impossible size. "Are you one of them?"
His expression darkens instantly. The air moving through the room grows heavy, charged with static. He steps into my personal space, looming over me, a wall of scarred muscle and aggression.
"Don't you ever," he growls, his voice dropping an octave, "compare me to a Leech."
He reaches past me. I flinch, thinking he’s going to grab me, but his hand goes to the door.
He turns the deadbolt.Click.Then he slides a heavy iron bar across the frame.Thud.
He turns back to me, his amber eyes glowing in the dim light.
"You stay put," he says. "You don't leave until the scent is gone, Leech."
"Stop calling me that!" I shout at his back as he walks toward a trapdoor in the floor. "My name is Miranda!"
He doesn't answer. He just disappears into the cellar, leaving me locked in a cabin with a wrench, a bag of melting peas, and a growing suspicion that I’ve traded a quick death for a slow, confusing one.
6
JAX
The swamp is loud tonight.
Usually, the cicadas and the bullfrogs create a wall of sound that I find comforting, a chaotic rhythm that drowns out the static in my head. But tonight, the noise is grating. It scratches against my eardrums like sandpaper.
I shove the flat-bottom boat onto the mud bank and tie it off to a cypress knee. My boots sink into the muck, the suction heavy and familiar. I’m carrying a canvas sack of supplies—coffee, bread, first-aid kit, and a fresh block of ice for the box.
My meeting with the Pack didn't go well.
“She’s a Duval, Jax,”Beau had said, his eyes wide and spooked.“Matilde put the word out an hour ago. Claimed a ‘beloved niece’ wandered off in a trauma-induced fugue state. She’s offering fifty grand for her safe return. No questions asked.”
