"You aren't listening to me, Miranda," he says, fierce intensity burning in his amber eyes. "Silver was an Enforcer. He was Pack. His blood is my blood."
He grips my chin, forcing me to look at him.
"When a Wolf dies, his standing doesn't vanish. It passes down."
He runs his thumb over the birthmark on my neck, the spot where he wanted to bite me.
"You carry the blood of the strongest Wolf this swamp ever produced," he growls. "You ain't just my Mate. You ain't just a Duval queen."
He leans in, his forehead resting against mine, his voice dropping to a rumble that vibrates in my bones.
"You're the rightful heir to the Pack. You’re family."
18
JAX
Silence, sometimes, is heavier than noise. It sits in your bones and sinks into your heart.
Ten minutes ago, the air was thick with the smell of sex. Now, it smells like history. The storm outside has settled into a steady, rhythmic drumming on the tin roof, but inside, the atmosphere is vibrating.
I pull away from her, my chest heaving. It takes every ounce of discipline I have not to drag her back down into the furs and finish what we started, but the truth is sitting between us like a loaded gun.
Silver’s daughter.
I stand up, my knees cracking. I feel raw. Exposed. I grab my jeans from the floor and yank them on, fastening the button with fingers that feel clumsy.
Miranda is still sitting on the nest. She’s pulled the heavy wool blanket up to her chin, staring at nothing. Her eyes—those impossible, shifting eyes—are wide. She looks like she’s trying to solve a math problem that just changed languages halfway through.
"Get dressed," I say. My voice is rough, scraping against my throat.
She blinks, focusing on me. "Jax..."
"Put on dry clothes," I say, gentler this time. I walk to the dresser and pull out a clean t-shirt and a pair of heavy socks. I toss them to her. "You're shivering."
She catches them. She moves stiffly, her movements mechanical as she sheds the damp towel and pulls the shirt over her head. It swallows her small frame. She looks tiny. Fragile.
But she ain't fragile. She carries the blood of a tank.
I turn away to give her privacy, walking to the stove. I need to do something with my hands. If I don't, I’m gonna reach for her again, and right now, I don't know if I’m touching a woman or a deity.
I grab the percolator. My hands know the rhythm—water, grounds, fire. It’s a domestic ritual in the middle of a war zone.
"You said..." Her voice comes from behind me, small but steady. "You said I’m the heir."
I strike a match on the side of the stove, watching the blue flame flare to life under the pot.
"I said you're the rightful heir," I correct, turning around.
She’s sitting on the mattress now, pulling the socks on over her sprained ankle. She winces slightly.
"Explain the logistics, Jax," she says. "Because from where I’m sitting, I’m a glitch in the system. A hybrid. In nature, hybrids are usually sterile or sickly. They aren't royalty."
"In the swamp, nature plays by different rules." I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. I watch her. The way the gold flecks in her eyes catch the firelight. It’s terrifying. "You think you're a mistake. A freak."
"The data supports that conclusion."
"The data is wrong."
