The iron is rough, pitted with rust and age. It’s warm from his body heat. I stare at it, feeling the weight of it press into my skin. I know what this is. I know what it means. This is his anchor. This is the only thing that keeps the Wolf from tearing his mind apart when the rage gets too loud.
"Jax," I breathe. "I can't take this. You need it."
"I don't need it anymore," he says roughly.
He closes my fingers over the iron, his large hand enveloping my fist.
"It grounds me," he explains, his thumb rubbing over my knuckles. "When the magic gets too loud, the iron burns it out. It reminds me I’m human."
He steps closer, his chest brushing mine.
"But it ain't the iron keeping me sane right now," he murmurs. "It’s you. You ground me, Miranda. You're my anchor."
The air leaves my lungs.
"Keep it," he says. "If the magic comes... if Matilde tries to get in your head... you squeeze it. You focus on the metal. Don't let them in."
I nod, clutching the spike against my chest like a talisman. "I promise."
The tension in the room shifts. It softens. The sharp edge of the coming violence dulls, replaced by something warmer, deeper.
Jax sinks down onto the floorboards, his back against the wall. He pulls me down with him.
We sit there in the gathering dark, legs tangled together. He pulls me into the cradle of his body, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist like steel bands.
I lean my head back against his shoulder. I can feel the steady, heavy thud of his heart. It’s not racing like it was yesterday. It’s strong. Resolved.
"Tell me a story," I whisper. "About the swamp. Before the war."
"There’s always been a war,chérie," he rumbles, his cheek resting against my hair. "But before the nets... the fishing was good. We used to take the boats out to the delta. The water is so clear there you can see the gars sleeping in the mud."
He talks. He tells me about the smell of wild jasmine in July. About the way the mist rolls off the water at dawn. About the quiet dignity of the Pack.
I listen, soaking up the vibration of his voice. I hold the iron spike in one hand and grip his forearm with the other.
For a moment, the boarded windows don't matter. The army waiting in the dark doesn't matter. The world shrinks down to this: the heat of his skin, the smell of cedar and rain, and the steady beat of a heart that beats for me.
It is the most peace I have ever known.
Jax shifts. He turns my face toward him.
In the gloom, his eyes are burning gold. Not with the feral hunger of the Wolf, but with the fierce, possessive devotion of the Man.
"Miranda," he breathes.
He lowers his head.
His lips brush mine. Softly. Surprisingly so.
It’s not the bruising, desperate collision of the shower. It’s a question. A promise. It’s a seal on the vow he made to protect me.
I melt into him. I open my mouth, inviting him in, tasting the coffee and the unique, electric taste that is justJax. I kiss him back with everything I have—all the gratitude, all the fear, all the love I haven't been brave enough to say out loud.
He hums against my lips, his hand coming up to cup my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear.
"Merry Christmas,mignonne," he whispers against my mouth.
"Merry Christmas, Jax."
