"I'm trying to," I admit. "But it’s getting harder to focus."
He leans in. The scent of him—cedar, rain, and that heavy, masculine musk—floods my senses. It’s not just a smell; it’s a presence. It occupies the room. It occupiesme.
I need an anchor. I need a rhythm to latch onto before I panic. Usually, I find a clock.Tick. Tock.But there are no clocks here. The only sound is the rain hammering the roof and the heavy, wet rasp of his breathing.
So I find a new rhythm.
I sync my breathing to his. In when he inhales. Out when he exhales. It’s an unconscious adjustment, a desperate attempt to find order in the chaos.
Inhale.Exhale.
"You're doing it again," he whispers. His thumb brushes my lower lip.
"Doing what?"
"Matching me. You're breathing my air."
I lift my hand. It moves without my permission, guided by a magnetic pull I can't identify. I place my palm flat against his chest, right over his heart.
It’s not a heartbeat.
It’s an engine block idling at high RPMs.Thud-thud-thud-thud.It’s heavy, powerful, and frantic. It feels like a piston firing against the wall of his ribs.
"Your heart," I whisper, my eyes widening. "It’s... it’s going so fast."
"Yeah," he rasps.
"Why?" I look up at him. "You're the apex predator. You're safe inside your own perimeter. Why is your system red-lining?"
"Because I'm terrified," he admits. The confession is stark, naked.
"Of what? The Hunters?"
"Of what I want to do to you," he says.
His eyes drop to my mouth. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the amber until only a thin ring of gold remains. The air between us crackles, hot and heavy.
"Jax..."
"You don't smell like the enemy anymore," he says, his voice rough with strain. "You smell like... something I need. And that scares the hell out of me, Miranda."
He leans down. I go up on my tiptoes, my bad ankle forgotten.
I want him to kiss me. The logical part of my brain screams that this is a bad idea, that he is a Wolf. I’m human. And we are in the middle of a war zone. But biology overrides logic.
My fingers curl into the wet hair on his chest. I pull him closer.
"Then don't be scared," I breathe. "Just be the Wolf."
The invitation hangs in the air, heavy and dangerous.
Jax flinches like I burned him with a soldering iron.
He rips himself away, stumbling back three feet. The loss of contact is physical—a sudden drop in pressure that leaves my ears popping.
"No," he gasps. He’s breathing hard, staring at me with wild, panicked eyes. He looks like he just woke up from a nightmare. "No. I can't."
He runs a hand through his wet hair, gripping the strands tight enough to pull. "I can't do this. Not with you. Not while you're a prisoner under my roof."
