I stare at my hands. The cut on my palm is already closing. The skin is knitting together before my eyes.
I turn back to Jax.
He is pressed into the corner, his body rigid, sweat pouring off him. He looks at me with terror. He thinks he’s a monster. He thinks he’s going to tear me apart.
"You aren't going to hurt me," I say, stepping closer.
"You don't know that!" he yells, his voice distorting into a snarl. "I’m losing the man, Miranda. The iron won't work. Nothing works. The beast wants to consume you."
"Then let him," I say.
I stop at the edge of the table.
"I remember the lore," I whisper, my eyes locked on his. "My father... he survived because he had a Mate. The bond completes the soul. It heals the body."
I reach for the hem of my shirt—the oversized flannel soaked in mud and his blood.
"What are you doing?" Jax’s breath hitches.
"Fixing the engine," I say.
I pull the shirt over my head and drop it to the floor. I shimmy out of my jeans. I kick them away.
I stand before him, naked in the flickering light of the lantern. The air is cold, but my skin is burning.
Jax stops breathing. His gaze rakes over me, hungry and desperate. A low, vibrating sound starts in his chest. It’s not a threat. It’s a purr. A dark, heavy sound of possession.
"Miranda," he groans. "Don't. I’m not... I’m not safe."
"I don't want safe," I say. "I want the Wolf."
I climb onto the table. I crawl toward him on my hands and knees.
The smell of him is overwhelming—cedar, blood, and raw, unchecked testosterone. It floods my system, drowning out the fear, drowning out the logic.
"Wolves don't hurt their mates," I whisper, stopping inches from him. "You can destroy the world, Jax. You can tear the throat out of every hunter in this swamp. But you won't hurt me."
"I’m feral," he warns, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard the wood splinters. "I won't be gentle. I won't be kind."
"Good."
I reach out. I cup his face. His skin is scorching hot. His beard scrapes my palms.
"Claim me," I order. "Finish it."
He shudders. A war is raging behind his eyes—the man fighting the beast, the protector fighting the conqueror.
I lean in.
I press my mouth to his.
I kiss him. I taste the copper of my own blood still lingering on his tongue.
That breaks him.
The man vanishes.
Jax’s body goes rigid. A growl tears its way out of his throat, loud and terrifying. His hands leave the table and seize my waist. His grip is bruising, possessive, inescapable.
