Jackson Roux fills the frame.
He is covered in snow. It dusts the shoulders of his black wool coat and clings to his dark hair. He’s wearing heavy work boots that leave wet prints on the polished hardwood, and he is carrying a tree.
Not a decorative, department-store fir. He is carrying a twelve-foot Louisiana pine, roots and all, slung over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
He stops in the doorway, taking in the room—the Wolves, the Vampires, the noise that cut out the second he entered.
His eyes glow gold, scanning for threats, scanning forus.
His gaze lands on me. The tension drains out of his shoulders. A grin splits his face—wolfish, arrogant, and heart-stoppingly handsome.
"Did you kill the tree, Alpha, or did you ask it nicely?" Remy calls out, breaking the tension.
Laughter ripples through the room.
"I negotiated," Jax rumbles, his voice carrying effortlessly to the back of the hall. "It put up a fight. Almost took an arm."
He walks into the room, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. Wolves clap him on the back; Vampires nod respectfully. He ignores them all, his eyes locked on me.
He reaches the table. He drops the tree with a heavythudthat makes the floorboards jump.
"You're late," I say, though I can't stop the smile spreading across my face. "The roast is resting. The gravy is at risk."
"Traffic," he says, leaning down. He smells of cold air, pine resin, and that deep, spicy musk that is justJax.
He kisses me. It’s not a polite hello. It’s a claim. He presses his cold lips to mine, humming with a vibration that travels straight down my spine.
He pulls back, his eyes shifting to the bundle in my arms.
His expression softens, the Alpha edge melting into something profoundly tender.
"Hey,Little Wolf," he whispers, running a large, rough finger down Aurore’s cheek.
She reaches for him, her tiny hand closing around his finger.
"She missed you," I say. "She’s been fussing for the last hour. I think she sensed you were gone too long."
"She knows her pack," Jax says, straightening up. He takes off his coat, tossing it onto a chair. Underneath, he’s wearing a white button-down that’s already straining at the shoulders. He rolls up the sleeves, revealing the thick cords of muscle in his forearms.
"Alright!" he shouts to the room. "Eat! Before the food gets cold and I have to feed you to the gators."
The noise explodes again. The feast resumes.
Jax grabs a plate, piling it high with meat, but he doesn't sit. He guides me away from the table, his hand heavy and warm on the small of my back.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"Too loud," he murmurs. "Need to breathe."
He leads me through the French doors and out onto the balcony.
The transition is jarring. One second, we are in the middle of a riotous banquet; the next, we are in the silent, expansive dark of the bayou night.
The air is crisp, unusually cold for Louisiana. The swamp stretches out before us, a tapestry of shadows and silver moonlight reflecting off the black water. The scars of the battle from a year ago are gone, covered by new growth. The levee is repaired. The fishing shack is rebuilt.
And it is snowing.
Soft, fat flakes drift down from the dark sky, melting as they hit the warm earth. It’s the same magic that fell the night we won. A reminder.
