I take it. The paper is thick, expensive. Cream-colored linen stock. Duval stationery.
I unroll it.
There are two things written on the page.
The first is typed in stark, black ink.
“His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire.” — Matthew 3:12
"Cleansing fire," I whisper. "Gregor’s touch."
"Keep reading," Jax says. He’s staring at the tree line, his jaw tight enough to snap.
Below the verse, in elegant, flowing handwriting that looks like it belongs on a wedding invitation, is a personal note.
My Dearest Niece,
History is a wheel. It turns and turns, and the same tragedies repeat for those too foolish to learn from them. Your mother thought she could hide in the mud. She thought a Wolf could save her.
I can still hear her screaming. It was a lovely sound.
Come home, Miranda. Or I will burn the swamp until the water boils, and I will mount your Wolf’s head on my wall right next to his father’s.
— Aunt Matilde
The paper slips from my fingers. It flutters into the mud.
I can't breathe. The air in my lungs feels solid, unmoving.
She killed her.
It wasn't just a nameless mob. It was Matilde. She watched her sister burn and enjoyed it. And now she’s threatening to do the same to Jax.
I look at him.
He’s scanning the perimeter, naked and muddy, holding a hunting knife he pulled from the debris. He’s ready to die for me. He’s ready to stand between me and an army of fanatics funded by a monster.
And he will lose.
The math is simple. The probability is stark. Trucks of equipment. A net across the river. Thermal scopes. And a vampire queen who has already killed an Enforcer.
If I stay, the wheel turns. History repeats. Jax dies. The Pack dies.
Guilt crashes over me, heavy and suffocating. I brought this here. I brought the fire to his doorstep. I invaded his home, ate his food, and painted a target on his back.
"She’s going to kill you," I whisper.
Jax turns to me. He steps closer, his muddy hands gripping my arms. "She’s trying to scare you. It’s psychological warfare. Don't let your mind get corrupted."
"It’s not a scare tactic, Jax. It’s a statement of intent." I look at the scar on his neck—the one a Duval gave him when he was a child. "She mounts heads on her wall. She burned my mother alive."
"And she won't touch you," he vows. "Not while I'm breathing."
"That's exactly the problem," I say, my voice breaking. "She’ll stop your breathing to get to me."
I pull away from him. I can't stand the heat of his touch right now. It feels like I’m burning him by proxy.
"We need to go inside," he says, glancing at the sky. "They know the drones are down. They’ll send a ground team."
