The empty plates sit between us like a demilitarized zone.
Outside, the swamp is throwing a tantrum. Rain lashes against the cypress logs, a relentless, percussive rhythm that should be soothing but sounds more like shrapnel hitting a hull. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of rendered animal fat, rosemary, and the heavy, damp wool of drying clothes.
I watch Jax.
He’s leaning back in his chair, nursing a tumbler of dark amber liquid that smells like gasoline and burnt oak. One hand rests on the table, the knuckles scarred and rough. He isn't looking at me. He’s watching the fire in the stove through the grate, his eyes reflecting the flames.
I’ve spent three days terrified of him. Three days calculating my escape and weaponizing household objects. But the data points are shifting.
A cruel man doesn't cook a steak to a perfect medium-rare for a prisoner. A monster doesn't give up the only bed because his captive has an injury. He’s abrasive, yes. He’s violent—I’ve seen the way he handles that axe—but the violence has a governor on it. It’s controlled. Precise.
"Stop staring," he rumbles, not turning his head. "You're looking at me as if I’m a puzzle with a missing piece."
"I’m recalibrating," I say, picking up my water glass. "Trying to reconcile the 'big bad wolf' profile with the man who just seasoned my potatoes with fresh thyme."
He snorts, taking a sip of the whiskey. "Wolves appreciate flavor,chérie. We ain't savages. Just efficient."
My eyes drift back to his neck. To the scar.
It’s a jagged, ugly thing. The tissue is raised and shiny, cutting through the scruff on his throat like a lightning strike frozen in flesh. It disappears under the collar of his flannel shirt.
"Who did it?" I ask again. "You didn't answer me before."
He sets the glass down. The liquid ripples. He turns to face me, and the firelight catches the blazing gold in his eyes, making them look molten.
"A Duval," he says flatly.
I stiffen. "Which one?"
"Does it matter? They all bite the same." He runs a thumb over the ridge of the scar, a subconscious movement. "I was ten. Maybe eleven. It was during the last skirmish, before the Truce was solid. My father was holding the line at the bridge. I thought I could help. Thought I was big enough."
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s a dry, scraping sound. "I wasn't."
"Ten years old," I whisper. I try to imagine a ten-year-old version of him—scraped knees, oversized paws, thinking he was invincible. "That’s... that’s a war crime."
"It’s nature," he corrects. "Predators don't check ID for age requirements. The leech caught me straying too far from the pack. Tore my throat out. Left me for dead in the mud."
"But you healed," I say, looking at the silver mark.
"Barely. Vampire venom acts like acid to us. It burns the healing factor out. My father found me. He... he had to bleed me to get the poison out." Jax looks back at the fire. "He carried me three miles through the swamp. Didn't put me down once."
The image hits me hard—the desperate father, the bleeding boy, the oppressive heat of the bayou. It’s a stark contrast to the cold, velvet silence ofBelle Rêve.
"Is that how you became Alpha?" I ask. "Because of the war?"
"I became Alpha because he died," Jax says. The words are heavy, dropping like lead weights. "Two years later. Hunters. Not Duvals. Humans with high-powered rifles and silver-tipped rounds. They caught him in the shift. He didn't stand a chance."
He picks up the whiskey again, draining it in one swallow. "I was twelve. I had to step up. The Pack was scattering, scared. Someone had to hold the center."
"Twelve," I repeat. I shake my head. "You were a child. You should have been worrying about math homework and... I don't know, baseball. Not leading an army."
"We grow up fast out here. You don't get to be a child when you're food for the neighbors." He pours another two fingers of whiskey. "I took the weight. I held the line. And I made sure nobody in my Pack went out like he did."
He looks at me, and the intensity of his gaze makes the air in the room feel thin.
"Tell me a story," I say suddenly. The silence is too heavy; I need to fill it with something else. "About him. Your dad."
Jax blinks, surprised. "What?"
