The command hangs in the air. The logical choice. The survival choice. Variable B.
I look at the door. The boat is right there. I could leave. I could disappear into the night, survive the war, and live the rest of my life alone, safe, and broken.
I look at Jax.
I look at the jagged scar on his neck. I look at the hands that built me a fire and held me while I cried. I look at the man who looked at a monster and called it his heart.
"Run," he says again, his voice fading to nothing.
I reach into my pocket. My fingers close around the iron spike. It bites into my skin, grounding me.
I pull my hand out. I slam the spike onto the table next to his head. The sound is loud, final.
I lean down until my lips are brushing his ear.
"No."
I straighten up. I look at Remy.
"We aren't running," I say. My voice is steady. Cold. "We’re fixing this."
"How?" Remy asks, looking at the dying man. "He’s gone, Miranda. The silver hit the heart."
"No," I say, grabbing the knife from the table. "The heart is just a pump. And I know how to jump-start an engine."
I climb onto the table, straddling Jax’s hips. I look down at his grey, dying face.
"I am the daughter of Silver," I say, raising the knife. "And I am not letting you die."
26
MIRANDA
The knife is heavy in my hand, slick with sweat and the grime of the swamp.
I look down at Jax. He is grey. Not the grey of the wolf, but the grey of ash in a cold fire pit. The black web of necrosis has reached his sternum. His breathing is a shallow, wet rattle that counts down the seconds he has left.
"Don't you die on me," I whisper. "The schematic isn't finished."
I don't hesitate. I place the blade against the meat of my palm, right below the thumb. I slice.
Pain flares—sharp, hot, and bright. It cuts through the panic. Blood wells up instantly, dark and rich in the dim light of the shack.
I drop the knife. It clatters to the floor.
I press my bleeding hand to Jax’s mouth.
"Drink," I command.
The blood runs over his lips, streaking his chin. He doesn't move. He’s too far gone. The liquid pools in the hollow of his throat.
"Remy!" I shout without looking up. "Hold his head up."
Remy is staring at me, his face pale, his eyes wide with horror. "Miranda, what are you doing? You can't feed a blood to a wolf. It activates the?—"
"He’s dying!" I scream, my voice cracking. "My blood is the variable! My father was immune. I carry the antibody. Now help me!"
Remy stumbles forward. He grabs Jax’s hair, lifting his head.
