"And the Humans," he spits the word like a curse. "Hunters. Mercenaries. Gregor’s boys."
He stalks to the sink and turns the tap on, splashing water over his face and chest. The water turns brown as it sluices off him.
"Matilde," he growls, grabbing a rough towel. "She’s paying them. Fifty grand for the safe return of her 'traumatized niece.' She’s buying an army with old plantation money."
"She hired humans?"
"Money makes the world go round,chérie," he says, tossing the towel onto the table. "Especially for men with no morals and expensive toys. They got UV lights, silver rounds, thermal scopes. They’re sweeping the grid."
He walks over to the stove, where a cast-iron pot has been simmering all day. He grabs two tin bowls and ladles out a thick, dark stew. The smell is rich—meat, potatoes, heavy spices.
He walks over and shoves a bowl into my hands. "Eat."
I look at the stew. "What is it?"
"Nutria," he says, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, stretching his long legs out. "Big river rat. Tastes like rabbit. Don't be precious about it."
I take a spoonful. It’s hot, salty, and gamy. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in twenty-four hours.
I eat. I don't hesitate. I scrape the bottom of the bowl.
Jax watches me, his spoon paused halfway to his mouth. His amber eyes narrow, assessing.
"You eat like a soldier," he observes. "Most city girls would turn their nose up at rat stew."
"I'm not picky," I say, setting the bowl down on the floor. "Fuel is fuel. If the engine doesn't get intake, it seizes."
"You talk like a machine," he grunts. "But you eat like you've been hungry."
"I grew up in the system, Jax," I say, looking at my hands. "Foster care. Chicago South Side. The funding was... inconsistent."
He goes still. The spoon lowers.
"There was a home when I was eight," I continue, my voice detached, reciting the specs of a broken history. "Mrs. Baker. She locked the fridge at night. If you missed dinner, you didn't eat until school lunch the next day."
I gaze up at him. "I learned to scavenge. The bakery down the street threw out the day-old bagels in a clean bin. If you got there before the rats, it was a feast."
Jax stares at me. The amber in his eyes shifts, swirling like molten gold. His jaw muscle ticks.
"You ate out of the trash," he says. It’s not a question.
"I survived," I correct him. "I fixed the problem. That’s what I do. I take broken situations and I make them work."
I laugh, a dry, brittle sound. "That’s why I took the test. The DNA kit. I didn't want the inheritance. I wanted... calibration. I wanted to know where I fit in the schematic. I thought if I found my blood, I wouldn't be just a spare part anymore."
I gesture vaguely toward the window, toward the vampires waiting in the dark.
"Turns out, my blood is poison. I went looking for a family and walked into a slaughterhouse. Stupid."
The silence stretches between us, heavy and thick as the humidity.
"It ain't stupid to want a pack," Jax says quietly.
He sets his bowl down and leans his head back against the logs. "But blood don't make family, Miranda. That’s a human lie."
"You have a pack," I point out. "You have people who look like you. Who arewhatyou are."
"My Pack," he says, the capital letter audible, "is built on loyalty. Yeah, we share the Wolf, but that ain't what binds us. I got wolves in my pack who hate each other’s guts, but they’d die for each other. We bleed for the ones who stand beside us, not the ones who share a last name."
