Entropy is the tendency of a system to move toward disorder. It is the heat death of the universe. It is the rust that eats the gear.
Right now, entropy is eating Jackson Roux alive.
I am standing over him in the dim, flickering light of the fishing shack, my hands slick with blood and black sludge. I have a rag pressed to his flank, applying pressure, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a paper towel.
The liquid silver has spread. It’s tracking through his veins like mercury, visible under his pale, sweaty skin. Where the poison touches, the flesh turns grey and necrotic. The heat radiating off him is terrifying—not the comfortable, furnace-warmth of the Wolf I slept beside, but a frantic, overheating engine running without oil.
"Stop," I whisper, pressing harder. "Just... stop spreading."
Jax arches off the table, his spine bowing violently. A guttural, wet sound tears from his throat as a convulsion seizes him.
His muscles lock up. His jaw clenches so hard I hear a tooth crack.
"Jax!" I grab his shoulders, trying to hold him down, trying to keep him from thrashing off the table. "Stay with me. Look at me."
His eyes fly open. The amber is dull, clouded by a milky film. He doesn't see me. He’s seeing the pain.
The seizure passes, leaving him limp and gasping, his chest heaving with shallow, rattling breaths.
I look at the rag in my hand. It’s soaked in black ichor.
"Remy," I say, my voice trembling. "We need to flush the wound. Do we have alcohol? Distilled water? Anything?"
Remy is slumped against the doorframe, clutching his own bleeding shoulder. He looks grey. He looks defeated.
"It won't work, Miranda," he says. His voice is hollow, stripped of all the light and humor he had days ago. "It’s in the blood stream. It’s binding to his cells."
"There has to be a counter-agent," I insist, throwing the ruined rag into a bucket and grabbing a clean shirt from a hook on the wall. "Every poison has an antidote. That’s basic chemistry."
"Not for this," Remy says. He walks over, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. He looks down at his Alpha. "Silver burns the magic out. Once it hits the heart... the Wolf dies. The man follows."
"He isn't dying," I snap, tearing the shirt into strips. "He’s fighting. Look at his heart rate. It’s erratic, but it’s strong."
"He’s dying, Miranda," Remy says gently. Too gently. "I can smell it. The rot is already in his lungs."
"No."
I refuse to accept that data point. I reject the conclusion.
Jax’s hand twitches. He lifts it, groping blindly until his fingers brush my arm. His grip is weak, a ghost of the crushing strength he had this morning.
"Remy," Jax croaks.
"I’m here, Boss," Remy says, stepping closer, leaning over him.
"Get her... out," Jax wheezes. Each word costs him something vital. "Take the boat. Go deep into the marsh. Don't stop... until you hit the coast."
"I ain't leaving you, Jax," Remy says, his voice breaking.
"That’s... an order," Jax grinds out. He turns his head, his clouded eyes trying to find mine. "She’s the target. Get her... away from the fire."
"Stop it," I say, grabbing his hand. It’s freezing cold now. The heat is centering in his core, abandoning his extremities. "I am not leaving. I am not going anywhere."
"You promised," Jax whispers. "You promised... you wouldn't let them take you."
"They aren't taking me because you aren't dying!" I shout at him. "You don't get to quit. You’re the Alpha. You’re the apex predator. You don't get taken out by a syringe full of metal!"
I look at the black web spreading across his stomach. It’s inches from his heart.
