I place it in the center of the table, right next to the shotgun.
The contrast is jarring. The festive greenery against the matte black steel of the weapon. Life and death, sitting side by side.
"It’s crooked," Jax says from the shadows.
He’s sitting in the corner near the door, sharpening his machete. Theshhhk-shhhksound of the whetstone has been the soundtrack of the afternoon.
I nudge the branch two millimeters to the left. "Better?"
"Perfect," he rumbles.
I look around the cabin. The string of lights we hung days ago is dead without the generator, but the tin star is still nailed to the beam. The wooden ornaments his grandmother carved are sitting on the mantel. It looks like a bunker trying to dress up for a party.
"I used to love this night," I say quietly, my fingers tracing the needles of the cypress branch. "At St. Agnes... that was the orphanage before I aged out... we didn't have much. The budget was always tight. But on Christmas Eve, the sisters would let us stay up late."
Jax stops sharpening. The silence stretches, waiting for me to fill it.
"We’d make chains out of construction paper," I continue, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "And we’d peel oranges just to put the rinds on the radiator so the room smelled like citrus instead of bleach and floor wax. It wasn't a Hallmark movie. The toys were donated and usually broken. But..."
I look at him. He’s watching me with those amber eyes, intense and unblinking.
"It was ours," I finish. "For one night, we weren't just case numbers. We were a unit. We had hot cocoa, and we had each other."
"You were happy," Jax states.
"I was safe," I correct. "Happiness is a variable. Safety is a baseline requirement."
I look down at the shotgun. "This might be my last Christmas, Jax. The statistical probability of us surviving the night is... low."
"Don't do the math, Miranda," he warns, his voice dropping.
"I have to. It’s how I process." I walk around the table, closing the distance between us. I stop in front of him. He looks up, the machete resting on his knee. "But even if the probability hits zero... this is the best one."
He frowns, a crease appearing between his brows. "We’re trapped in a box waiting for a siege. How is this the best?"
"Because I have the truth," I whisper.
I reach out, my hand hovering over his shoulder before settling there. The muscle is hard, tense as a coiled spring.
"For twenty-six years, I thought I was garbage," I say, the tears stinging my eyes. I blink them back. "I thought I was abandoned because I was defective. But you gave me the answer. You told me about Silver. About Céleste. You gave me the knowledge that I was loved enough to be saved."
Jax sets the machete on the floor. He stands up. The movement is fluid, unfolding his massive frame until he towers over me.
"You gave me closure," I say, looking up into his face. "And you gave me this." I gesture to the cabin, to the grim preparations, to him. "I found family, Jax. I don't mean the vampires at the plantation. I mean you."
His jaw works. The scar on his neck twitches, flushing dark against his skin.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. The way he looks at me—like I’m something fragile and precious that he’s terrified of breaking—says it all.
He reaches into the pocket of his jeans.
"Hand," he commands.
I hold out my hand, palm up.
He places something heavy and cold into it.
I look down. It’s the railroad spike.
