Now, it’s fixed.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Miranda dismantle my toolbox on the kitchen table. She’s organized my wrenches by size. My screwdrivers are lined up like soldiers. She’s even coiled the loose wire that’s been sitting on the counter for six months.
It’s annoying as hell.
It’s also impressive.
"You got a compulsive need to organize everything, or you just trying to drive me crazy?" I ask. This is what I get back after being out for a few hours.
She doesn't look up. She’s scrubbing a patch of rust off my heavy shears with a piece of steel wool. "Chaos is inefficient, Jax. If you need a Phillips head in an emergency and you have todig through a drawer of junk, you lose seconds. Seconds equal casualty rates."
"It's a screwdriver, not a trauma kit," I grunt.
I push off the doorframe and prowl into the room. The cabin feels smaller with her in it. Every time she moves, the air currents shift, carrying that confusing, maddening scent of hers—brass polish and blood-sugar—right to my nose.
The Wolf is restless today. It’s pacing behind my ribs, scratching at the sternum. Today is day three. Three days of breathing her air. Three days of sleeping five feet away from her, listening to her heart change rhythm when she dreams.
It’s a deep, dull ache in my groin and a sharp tension in my jaw. I want to bite her. I want to mark her skin so the Duval stink is gone forever.
"We need a tree," she announces.
I stop mid-stride. "A what?"
"A tree. Or at least some garland. Lights." She gestures around the cabin with the shears. "It’s Christmas in nine days. This place looks like a serial killer’s hideout."
"Itisa killer’s hideout," I drawl. "I kill things. I hide here. Accurately labeled."
"Well, it’s depressing," she snaps, setting the shears down. She turns to face me, hands on her hips. She’s wearing one of my old flannel shirts, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. It swallows her frame, making her look small and breakable. "If I’m going to be a prisoner of war, I demand holiday cheer."
"No."
"Yes."
"Miranda, I ain't dragging a pine tree through the mud just so you can hang popcorn on it."
"Then get the box," she says.
I narrow my eyes. "What box?"
"The one under the loose floorboard in the pantry. I saw you checking it yesterday. It’s labeled 'XMAS.' Don't try to lie to me, I saw the dust patterns."
She’s too observant. It’s dangerous.
"No decorations," I state flatly. "We’re in a siege situation. Tinsel ain't a priority."
She glares at me, violet eyes flashing behind those glasses. "You need to lighten up. Seriously. You walk around here with a face like thunder and a stick up your ass. Or maybe it’s a sugar cane, considering the location. Is that a Louisiana thing?"
My jaw works. "What did the sugar cane do to you to deserve that comparison?"
"It’s stiff. It’s fibrous. And it’s seemingly impossible to remove." She crosses her arms. "Get the box, Jax. Please. I need... I need to fix the room. If I can't leave, I need to change the inside. I need distraction or I’ll die not by vampire hands but by my own mind."
Her voice cracks on the last word. Just a hairline fracture, but I hear it. She’s scared. She’s holding it together with mechanics and sarcasm, but she’s vibrating with anxiety.
I stare at her for a long second. The Wolf whines, wanting to comfort her. The human just wants her to stop staring at me like that.
"Fine," I growl.
I stomp to the pantry, rip the floorboard up, and haul out the battered cardboard box. I slam it onto the table. Dust motes dance in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window.
