Miranda is moving around the kitchen. I can hear theclinkof a spoon against a ceramic mug, the softthudof her bare feet on the floorboards. She’s humming something low and off-key.
My chest tightens. It’s a physical squeeze, a pressure behind the sternum that has nothing to do with the silver poisoning I survived and everything to do with the woman who pulled me back from the edge.
She ain't just a mechanic anymore. She ain't just a survivor.
She’s the Queen.
The transition happened fast. When the sun rose on Christmas morning, the remaining Duvals—the cousins, the seconds-in-command—came to the edge of the swamp. They didn't come to fight. They came to kneel. They saw what she did to Matilde. They felt the shift in the magic. They looked at Miranda, standing there in my shirt with blood on her hands and gold in her violet eyes, and they recognized the top of the food chain.
Now, the Pack guards the perimeter not because we’re besieged, but because we’re guarding royalty.
I rub my thumb over the scar on my palm. The iron spike is gone. I tossed it into the deepest part of the canal three days ago. I don't need it. The rage is quiet. The Wolf is satisfied.
"Jax?"
Her voice drifts through the screen door.
I turn.
Miranda steps onto the porch. She’s wearing an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder and a pair of leggings. Her hair is a chaotic platinum halo, held back by a clip. She looks soft. Human.
But I can smell the power rolling off her. It’s ozone and brass, sharp and electric. It makes my hair stand on end.
"You're brooding," she says, walking down the stairs. She doesn't limp anymore. Her healing factor fixed the ankle completely. "I can feel the barometric pressure drop when you think too hard."
"I ain't brooding," I say, reaching out to catch her hand as she steps onto the dock. "I’m patrolling."
"From a stationary position?" She raises an eyebrow.
She steps into my space, wrapping her arms around my waist. She rests her head against my chest, right over my heart.
I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her hair. I breathe her in. It’s the only drug I need.
"Happy New Year,chérie," I murmur into her scalp.
"Not yet," she says, checking the vintage watch on her wrist. "We have fifteen minutes until midnight. The data requires precision."
"You and your data."
"It saved your life," she reminds me, poking my side. "If I hadn't calculated the biological variables of the mating bond, you’d be a very handsome corpse."
"And you’d be a widow before you were a wife," I say.
She freezes.
I feel the hitch in her breath against my ribs. She pulls back, looking up at me. Her violet eyes search my face, looking for the joke.
"Jax?"
"I didn't have time to go to the city," I say, my tone rougher than I want it to be. My heart is thudding against my ribs, a heavy, rhythmic kick that feels louder than the fireworks popping over the town. "And a diamond didn't seem right. Not for you. Not for us."
I step back. I walk to the tarp-covered shape I hauled onto the end of the dock earlier this evening.
"What is that?" she asks, stepping closer. "I thought it was lumber."
"It ain't lumber."
I grab the corner of the heavy canvas tarp.
