"I figured." She leans against the counter, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the cast iron handle. "The vibe is wrong, Jax. The air pressure changed. What did he say?"
I walk to the table. I need coffee. I pour a cup from the percolator on the stove. It’s sludge—thick, black, and bitter.
"Matilde doubled down," I say, taking a sip. "We knew she was paying Gregor. We didn't know how much."
Miranda stiffens. "How much?"
"Enough to buy a siege," I say, turning to face her. "They didn't just send a few guys to watch the house, Miranda. They brought in four trucks of heavy gear. They netted the canal. They got drones in the air with thermal imaging."
She pales, her knuckles turning white on the skillet. "Thermal? They can see our heat signatures?"
"Through the walls," I confirm. "They know exactly where we are. They ain't attacking yet because they’re waiting for us to make a mistake. Or starve."
"That’s... excessive," she whispers. "For one person? It’s statistically disproportionate."
"It’s desperate," I correct. "She’s throwing every dollar the Duvals have at this swamp to make sure you don't survive the week."
Miranda sinks into the chair. "I thought the Hunters were just... local rednecks with guns. You make them sound like a paramilitary unit."
"Gregor has always been a fanatic," I say, setting the cup down. "But now he’s a well-funded fanatic. That makes him dangerous."
I watch her process this. I see the gears turning in her head, calculating odds, looking for a mechanical solution to a tactical problem. But there is no fix for this. There’s just endurance.
"We’re pinned," she says finally. "We can't leave. The river is blocked. The woods are full of sensors."
"We’re dug in," I correct. "Big difference."
I walk over to my gear bag in the corner. I dig past the ammo boxes and pull out a sheath. Inside is a hunting knife—six inches of carbon steel, razor-sharp, with a weighted handle. It’s old, reliable. My father gave it to me.
I walk back to her.
"Stand up."
She stands, wary.
I take her hand and press the handle into her palm. It’s heavy. Too big for her, but she grips it instinctively, her fingers curling around the leather.
"Jax?"
"Listen to me," I say, staring into her violet eyes. "The rules changed. They ain't probing anymore. They’re preparing to breach. It might be tonight. It might be Christmas Eve."
"This isn’t the Christmas I was expecting. I don't even know how to fight," she says, her voice trembling.
"You don't need to know form. You need to know intent." I close my hand over hers, trapping the knife between us. "If I go down... if the Wolf can't stop them... you don't surrender. You hear me? Gregor don't take prisoners. And Matilde won't give you a quick death."
I squeeze her hand hard enough to bruise.
"You use this," I order, my voice rough with the weight of the command. "You aim for the soft spots. The neck. The gut. The femoral artery. You fight dirty."
"Jax—"
"And if you can't fight," I whisper, leaning in until our foreheads touch, breathing her air, "if they corner you and there’s no way out... you use it on yourself."
She shudders, a violent tremor that runs through her whole body. Her breath hitches, warm against my lips.
"Do not let them take you back toBelle Rêve," I rasp. "Promise me."
She stares at me, terror and determination warring in her eyes. She looks at the knife, then back at me.
