She looks like a warrior.
"You fought," I whisper, reaching up with a hand that feels like lead. I touch her arm. "You fought."
"I told you I would," she says, her voice breaking. "I keep my promises."
"Your injuries, does it hurt?"
"Don't think about it," she says softly. "Focus on breathing. In. Out. Match my rhythm, Jax. Do it."
I try. I try to sync my lungs to hers, but the hitch in my chest makes it impossible. The fire in my flank is spreading. I can feel it moving into my gut, wrapping around my spine. It feels like ice and lava at the same time.
The boat slows. We drift toward a rotting dock hidden under a canopy of weeping willow.
Remy ties us off. He and Miranda haul me out. I can't help them. My legs are dead weight.
They drag me into the cabin. It smells of stale tobacco and dried fish. They hoist me onto a table.
Miranda tears my jeans open, exposing the wound.
I hear her sharp intake of breath.
I strain to lift my head.
The wound isn't bleeding red anymore. The veins radiating out from the puncture site are black. A web of necrosis is spreading across my hip, reaching toward my navel. The skin is grey, puckered, and burning hot to the touch.
"It’s moving fast," Remy says, his voice tight with fear.
"Give me a knife," Miranda orders. "I need to cut the tissue out before it hits the femoral artery."
"It’s liquid, Miranda," Remy says, gripping her shoulder. " It’s in the blood. You can't cut it out."
I let my head drop back against the wood. The ceiling is spinning.
The cold is settling deep in my chest now. It’s numbing the pain, which is a mercy, but I know what that means. The healing factor is dead. The Wolf is silent.
I look at Miranda. She’s frantically searching the shelves, grabbing jars, looking for anything to stop the rot. She’s vibrating with that need to fix, to solve, to repair.
But I’m not a clock.
"Miranda," I whisper.
She freezes. She turns to me, her eyes swimming with tears.
"Fix it," she whispers to herself. "Just fix it."
"You can't," I say. The realization is calm, quiet. "It’s too deep."
She comes to my side, gripping my hand. Her skin is warm. Mine is freezing.
"Don't say that," she begs. "Don't you dare quit on me, Jackson Roux."
I squeeze her fingers, but I can barely feel them. The darkness is creeping in at the edges of my vision, soft and inviting.
"I ain't quitting," I murmur, my eyes sliding shut. "But I think... I think the engine’s dead."
25
MIRANDA
