"You realized that a clock implies a lifetime of maintenance," she says, her voice wet with tears. "It requires daily attention. Precision. It’s a permanent commitment."
"I’m counting on it," I say.
She drops to her knees in front of me, ignoring the mud, ignoring the status, ignoring the crown she now wears. She grabs the front of my shirt.
"Yes," she says.
The relief hits me so hard I almost fall over.
"But," she adds, her eyes narrowing playfully, the gold flecks dancing. "Only if you promise to never fix the sink again. You used duct tape on a pressurized line, Jax. It was mechanically offensive. You did a terrible job."
I laugh. It’s a loud, barking sound that scares a heron out of the reeds.
"I promise," I say. "No more plumbing. Just heavy lifting."
"Deal," she whispers.
She leans in.
Her lips meet mine.
It’s not a desperate kiss. It’s not a kiss to save a life or seal a magic bond. It’s slow. It’s deep. It tastes of jasmine and promise and the sweet, intoxicating scent of home.
Around us, the town of St. Jude’s erupts.
Fireworks explode over the tree line—red, gold, green—painting the sky in flashes of light. The church bells in the distance start to ring, marking the midnight hour.
I deepen the kiss, my hand tangling in her hair, pulling her closer until there is no space left between us.
Let them ring the bells. Let them light the fires.
I have the only thing that matters right here in my arms.
32
MIRANDA
The boundary line is no longer a scar on the earth. It is a seam where two fabrics have been stitched together.
The moon hangs heavy and full over the bayou, casting a silver path across the water that meets the manicured lawn ofBelle Rêve. We stand right on the line. To my left, the cypress trees rise from the mud, their knees gnarled and ancient. To my right, the white columns of the plantation house glow in the dark, scrubbed clean of the moss and the rot.
The air smells of night-blooming jasmine and wet earth.
I look out at the crowd. It is a statistical impossibility made flesh. On one side, the Pack stands in their human forms, dressed in their Sunday best, though most of the men look uncomfortable in collars. On the other, the remaining Duval vampires stand still as statues, their pale skin glowing in the moonlight, dressed in black silk and velvet.
They aren't fighting. They are witnessing.
Jax stands before me.
He is wearing a black suit that fits his massive frame perfectly, though he’s foregone the tie, leaving the top button of his white shirt open. The jagged silver scar on his neck is visible,a testament to the history we survived. His hair is tamed—barely—and his amber eyes are burning with a quiet, intense heat that makes my knees weak.
"I didn't write vows," he says, his voice a low rumble that carries over the quiet croak of the bullfrogs. "I ain't good with words."
"You're good with the important ones," I whisper, my hands trembling in his.
He squeezes my fingers. His palms are warm, calloused, and solid.
"I claim you," he says, staring straight into my soul. "In this life and the next. I claim your heart, your breath, and your fight. You are my Alpha. You are my blood."
