I flinch, my muscles locking up, expecting a weapon.
Instead, he pulls out the iron railroad spike.
He grips it in his right hand. His fist clenches. I watch the muscles in his forearm bunch and twist like steel cables under the skin. He squeezes hard. Harder. His knuckles turn white.
A drop of blood, dark and heavy, falls from the bottom of his fist and hits the floorboards.Splat.
"Jax!"
I hastily scramble to my feet, forgetting the heat, forgetting the ache in my ankle.
"Stop it! Why do you keep doing that?"
I reach for his hand.
He tries to pull away, twisting his torso, but I’m faster. I grab his wrist with both hands. His skin is scalding hot, fever-hot.
"Let go," he warns.
"Open your hand. Now."
He glares at me, his jaw working. He looks like he wants to shove me away, but the fight drains out of him slowly. He uncurls his fingers.
The spike drops to the floor with a heavythud.
His palm is a mess. The rough iron has sliced deep into the calloused skin, reopening the wounds from yesterday, and the day before. It’s an ugly, jagged gash, oozing blood mixed with rust.
"Why?" I whisper, staring at the wound. "We talked about the war. We talked about your dad. But you never explained this. Why the self-sabotage?"
"It ain't sabotage," he rasps. He’s looking at the top of my head, refusing to meet my eyes. "It’s a governor. A breaker switch."
"For what? The Wolf?"
"For the man," he says. "Iron burns the magic out. It clears the fog. When I hold it... I remember that I got ten fingers and a name. I remember that I ain't just a set of teeth waiting to bite."
"You aren't just teeth, Jax."
"You don't know that," he says, looking at me now. "You see me cooking steaks and fixing lights. You don't see what’s scratching at the door inside my head. The Wolf don't care about the Truce. He don't care about collateral damage."
"And hurting yourself stops him?"
"Pain focuses the mind," he says simply. "It’s the only thing loud enough to drown out the scent of you."
I stare at him. "My scent makes you want to hurt yourself?"
"Your scent makes me want to do things that would make you run into the swamp and take your chances with the gators," he says.
The admission hangs in the humid air, heavy and terrifying.
"You're bleeding," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady, pivoting back to the problem I can fix. "Infection risk is exponential in this humidity. Tetanus. Sepsis."
"I heal," he says dismissively.
"Not if you keep ripping the sutures open."
I pull him toward the sink. He follows, surprisingly compliant, like a large, dangerous dog allowing itself to be led on a leash.
I turn on the tap. The water is lukewarm, but it’s wet. I push his hand under the stream.
