"Jax, wait—" I reach out.
"Don't touch me," he snarls. It’s not anger. It’s desperation. "If you touch me again, Miranda, I won't stop. And I ain't gonna take you like this. Desperate. Confused. In a cabin surrounded by enemies."
He backs up until he hits the door. He fumbles with the lock, his hands shaking.
"Where are you going?" Panic spikes in my voice. "It’s pouring out there."
"The porch," he says. He shoves the bolt back. "I’m sleeping on the porch."
"You'll freeze," I argue, stepping forward. "That’s stupid. You're soaking wet?—"
"I run hot," he cuts me off. He opens the door, letting the storm howl back into the room. "Lock the door behind me. Slide the bolt. Don't open it unless the sun is up."
"Jax—"
He looks at me one last time. The longing in his face is raw, an open wound that mirrors the ache in my own chest.
"Go to bed, Miranda," he says, his voice breaking. "Before I forget that I'm a man and let the Wolf have what he wants."
He steps out and slams the door.
I stare at the wood grain, shaking, listening to the heavythudof his body dropping onto the wet planks outside.
My hand finds the bolt. I slide it home.Clunk.
I’m safe inside. He’s outside in the cold.
I press my forehead against the door, listening to the rain, and the silence of an empty room doesn't feel like order. It feels like a cage.
12
JAX
Sleeping on wet porch floorboards is a young man’s game, and I ain't a young man anymore.
I wake up stiff, my neck craning at a bad angle against a sack of potting soil I used for a pillow. The sun is barely up, bleeding a bruised purple light through the cypress trees, but the heat is already rising. It pulls the moisture out of the wood, turning the air into a sauna.
I sit up, my spine popping in three places. I run a hand over my face, feeling the grit of yesterday’s storm and the rough stubble on my jaw. I feel like hell.
But I smell like heaven.
The scent of her—that sweet vanilla and sharp brass—is still clinging to my skin from where I held her in the mud. It’s burned into my pores. Even the swamp funk can't cover it.
I look at the cabin door. It’s still bolted from the inside.
I stand up, stretching until my shoulders crack. The Wolf is restless this morning, pacing circles in my chest. It didn't like being locked out. It wanted to be inside, curled around the little mechanic, keeping her warm. Instead, I spent the night staringat the dark, gripping the metal spike in my pocket every time I thought about breaking down the door.
A low hum cuts through the morning silence.
I freeze, head snapping toward the water. It ain't a car. It’s the deep, throaty chug of an outboard motor running low.
I move across the porch, watching the mist curl off the bayou. A flat-bottom skiff cuts through the duckweed, the wake disturbing a heron that takes flight with a harsh croak.
It’s Remy.
I let out a breath, my shoulders dropping an inch.
I walk down the stairs to the dock, my boots heavy with mud. I glance back at the cabin window. The shutters are closed. Miranda is either asleep or pretending to be. I don't want her hearing this.
