I can hear the rain hitting the tin roof. I hear the settling of the wood. And over it all, steady and frantic, I hear her.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
Her heart. It’s racing.
She’s awake. She’s scared.
The Wolf stops pacing. The Wolf makes a decision. The Man tries to fight it—tries to tell me to stay outside, to stay cold—but the pull is too strong. I need to make sure she’s still there. I need to make sure she’s safe.
I climb the stairs. I don't bother being quiet. I throw the bolt and shove the door open.
The air inside is stiflingly hot, thick with her scent—that burnt sugar smell that drives me insane. Lightning flashes, illuminating the room in a stark, blue-white strobe.
She’s on the mattress. She’s sitting up, her back pressed against the log wall, her knees pulled to her chest. She’s wearing that thin white tank top, and in the flash of lightning, I see the dark outline of her nipples against the fabric.
She doesn't have the knife. She’s clutching the sheet.
I lock the door.Click.
I stalk to the bed.
Miranda tracks me. Her eyes are wide, the violet looking almost black in the shadows. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't tell me to leave. She knows better.
The mattress groans as I put a knee on it.
She flinches, but she holds her ground.
I crawl onto the bed. I’m dripping wet, bringing the smell of nature and violence with me. I loom over her, bracing my hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in.
I don't touch her. Not with my hands. Not with my body. I force my muscles to lock, keeping myself inches away from her skin. If I touch her now, I won't stop. I’ll ruin everything.
I lower my head.
I inhale.
I run my nose along the curve of her jaw, down the line of her throat, stopping right over that starburst birthmark. I breathe her in, filling my lungs with her, flushing out the scent of the swamp, the Hunters, and the doubt of my Pack.
She trembles. A small, jagged sound escapes her throat.
"Jax," she whispers. It’s a plea, but I don't know if she wants me to stay or go.
I move lower. My face brushes the soft cotton of her tank top, right over her stomach. I can hear her gut churning with nerves. I can smell the arousal spiking off her, mixing with the fear.
I bury my face deep in her stomach, pressing my forehead against the soft warmth of her belly. I close my eyes, clenchingmy jaw until my teeth ache, letting the sound of her racing heart surround me.
"Mo coeur," I whisper into her skin, the words vibrating against her ribs. "You are killing me."
15
MIRANDA
The vibration against my ribs is seismic.
Jax has his face buried in the soft flesh of my stomach, his breath hot and wet through the thin cotton of my tank top. He isn't moving. He’s just breathing, dragging air into his lungs like he’s drowning and I’m the only oxygen left in the room.
“Mo coeur, you are killing me.”
The French is rough, guttural, vibrating straight through my abdominal wall. It’s a plea. It’s a warning.
