Because the last thing I need is to start thawing toward a man who clearly prefers the cold.
Chapter Nine
Jax
The nightmare spits me out of sleep before dawn, leaving my heart thudding hard enough to hurt and my throat tight with the kind of grief that still feels fresh even after years of trying to bury it. I blink into the darkness of the room, listening to the faint groan of the storm outside, the steady creak of the cabin settling, the disorienting hush of two other people breathing somewhere beyond my door.
It takes a moment to remember where I am, why the house isn’t empty, why the air feels warmer than it should. Ava and her daughter are asleep in the room down the hall. The generator hums faintly beneath the floorboards. The fire must still be alive in the stove; the air carries the faint scent of woodsmoke.
And… something else.
A sound. A soft shuffle. A small clatter.
I sit up, instinct prickling. That isn’t an adult moving around—light steps, then a chair leg scraping quietly against the floor. I pull on a shirt and step into the hallway.
There’s a faint glow spilling from the kitchen. Not bright. Not steady. Like someone tried to turn on a light and barely got the bulb to cooperate. When I reach the doorway, I find Violet standing at the counter in an oversized sweatshirt, pajama pants dragging over her socks. She leans both palms on the wood, her shoulders trembling slightly, her breathing thin and uneven.
Her glucometer lies on the counter beside her.
The number on the display makes my chest tighten.
“Hey,” I say quietly, not wanting to startle her. “You okay?”
She turns her head slowly, like it costs her something. Her freckles look sharper against the sudden pallor of her skin. There’s sweat beading at her hairline despite how cold the kitchen is. Her lips are pale, her eyes glassy.
“I didn’t want to wake my mom,” she whispers. “I just… felt weird.”
I cross the room before she sways another inch. “Sit down.”
She tries—and nearly misses the chair entirely. I steady her, lowering her onto the seat and reaching for the fridge with my free hand. The juice boxes they brought last night are tucked neatly on the top shelf. I grab one and kneel beside her, guiding the straw to her lips.
“Small sips,” I say, my voice quieter than I expect. “Slow and steady.”
She obeys, though her hands tremble too violently to hold the box herself. I keep it steady, watching color ebb and flow beneath her skin like a tide trying to decide which way to go.
Her breathing stutters. She blinks, slow and unfocused. “I didn’t want to bother her,” she murmurs. “She barely slept. I heard her crying after she thought I was asleep.”
My jaw goes tight. That image—Ava alone in the dark, breaking where no one can see—lands in a place I don’t want to acknowledge.
“You’re not a bother,” I say gently. “You tell her when you feel off. Every time. Got it?”
She nods, or tries to. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment.
“Hey,” I murmur, nudging her knee. “Stay with me. It’s okay. You’re doing good.”
The number rises a few points on the meter. Not enough yet. It’ll climb, though. It’s climbing already. I’ve ridden out episodes like this more times than I can count. Different people. Differentcircumstances. But the same fragile moment where a body forgets itself and the world tilts.
A floorboard creaks down the hall.
Then another.
Then Ava bursts through the doorway so fast the cold air seems to follow her. Her hair is loose, messy from sleep, and she’s barefoot in my kitchen, eyes wide with panic. She takes one look at Violet and chokes on a sound I feel in my bones.
“Oh God. Vi—baby—why didn’t you wake me?”
Violet tries to smile. Fails. “Didn’t wanna—scare you.”
Ava’s breathing spikes immediately. She drops to her knees on the opposite side of her daughter, hands hovering uselessly over Violet’s shoulders, over her face, over the juice box I’m holding. She’s shaking. Not subtly. Not controllably. Fear lives in her spine the same way loss lives in mine—deep, permanent, waiting for any excuse to roar.
