And then the wind shifts.
A gust of wind blows rain sideways under the cabin, soaking us both instantly. It washes over her face, her neck, her hair.
It washes away the last of the cedar smoke from the cabin. It washes away the mud. And finally, after three days of living in my space, it washes away the last lingering trace ofBelle Rêve.
The scent of dried roses and formaldehyde vanishes.
I freeze.
My nostrils flare, taking in the new info.
It pierces me like a blow to the solar plexus.
It’s not just copper and sugar. It’s richer. It’sBrass—sharp, metallic, clean. And underneath that, something impossibly sweet, like vanilla heated until it caramelizes. It’s the scent of a woman.Mywoman.
The Wolf slams into the front of my mind.MATE.
The logic is gone. The restraint I’ve been holding onto with a death grip snaps.
I drop the flashlight. It rolls into the mud, casting wild, erratic shadows against the pylons.
"Jax?" Her voice wavers. She senses the shift. She sees the predator surface.
I don't speak. I move.
I grab the lapels of the oversized raincoat and shove her back against the wooden pylon. It’s not gentle. It’s not civilized.
Her head hits the wood with a soft thud. Her eyes go wide, violet meeting the burning gold of mine.
I nestle my face in her neck, right over that starburst birthmark. I inhale. deeply. Greedily.
There is no rot. No death. Just life. Just her.
I groan, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against her skin. My hands slide up, gripping her jaw, tilting her head back to give me better access.
"Jax, what are you?—"
"Quiet," I rasp against her throat.
I lick the stripe of rain off her skin. She tastes like the storm and something sweet enough to rot my teeth.
She shudders, her hands coming up to grip my biceps. She doesn't push me away. She holds on.
I pull back just enough to look her in the eye. My breathing is ragged. The scar on my neck is throbbing in time with my heart.
"The rain," I whisper, my voice a wrecked growl. "It washed it off."
"Washed what off?" she breathes, her pupils blown wide.
"The Crypt," I say. I lean in again, brushing my nose against hers, inhaling her breath. "The rot. The Duvals."
I press my hips against hers, letting her feel the weight of me, the hardness of the spike in my pocket digging into my thigh, the only thing keeping me from biting her right here in the mud.
"You don't smell like them anymore," I say, the conviction in my voice crashing over me like the storm. "You smell like mine."
11
MIRANDA
