Remy kills the engine and drifts into the pylon. He tosses me the rope without a word. I tie it off.
My Beta looks wrecked. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he smells like stale coffee and ozone-sharp stress. He steps onto the dock, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Morning, Boss," he says. His voice is gravel-rough, quiet.
"Remy." I nod toward the boat. "You look like you went ten rounds with a gator."
"Feels like it," Remy spits into the water. "I hate to break this to you, Jax. The situation worsened."
I cross my arms, the muscle in my jaw jumping. "Tell me."
"It ain't just a squad anymore," Remy says grimly. "We thought Matilde hired a team. She didn't hire a team, Jax. She rented a battalion. We counted four transport trucks moving down the old logging road on the east levee an hour ago."
I stiffen. "Four? That road barely holds a pickup."
"They’re moving heavy equipment. Generators. Floodlights. And they ain't just watching the perimeter. They’re closing it."
Remy steps closer, his voice dropping. "They dropped a net across the main canal. Steel mesh. Nothing bigger than a trout gets in or out. They cut the supply line to the lower bayou."
"They’re laying a siege," I growl. The realization sits heavy in my gut. "Starve us out."
"It’s worse. They got thermal drones up. The twins tried to make a run for provisions this morning, and they took fire from three hundred yards out. Rubber bullets this time, but next time it’ll be silver."
I grip the pylon, the wood groaning under my hand. "Gregor is getting bold."
"Gregor is getting rich," Remy corrects. "We saw the crates they were unloading. High-grade UV emitters. Military surplus. Matilde is pouring everything she has into flushing this girl out."
"She knows Miranda is here with us," I mutter. "There’s something she wants from her, aside from the usual draining of her blood for supper. Fuck, leeches."
"The Pack is scared, Jax," Remy says, meeting my eyes. "They can’t fish. They can’t hunt. The elders are saying we’re bleeding for a stranger. They’re asking if she’s worth it."
My hand dives into my pocket. I grip the iron spike, squeezing until the jagged metal bites into my palm. The pain is sharp, familiar. It keeps the growl from ripping out of my throat.
"They question my loyalty?" I ask, my voice dropping to a dangerous subsonic rumble.
"They question the math," Remy says gently. "One girl versus the livelihood of the whole parish. We hold the line because you say so, but if the food runs out... loyalty gets expensive."
"Tell them to hold," I say, pushing off the pylon. "Tell them this ends on Christmas."
"That’s nine days away, Jax. A lot of bullets can fly in nine days."
"Just hold the line, Remy."
He nods, untying the rope. "Watch the sky. Those drones are quiet."
He pushes off, the engine sputtering to life. I watch him disappear into the fog, the wake slapping against the pylons.
I’ve got a war in my hands.
I turn toward the cabin. The silence is gone. Now, all I hear is the ticking clock of a bomb counting down.
I take the stairs two at a time.
I unlock the bolt. Miranda is standing by the stove, holding the cast iron skillet like a shield. She’s wearing my flannel shirt again, her hair a chaotic halo of platinum blonde. She looks tired, but her eyes are sharp, tracking me the second I step inside.
She lowers the pan when she sees it’s me. "I heard the boat."
"Remy," I say shortly. I lock the door behind me, throwing the heavy deadbolt and the secondary latch.
