Page 10 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

Something in her eyes flashes. Not fear. Challenge. We’re going to butt heads. Repeatedly. I can feel it already.

The real problem is, damn it, I don’t hate the idea as much as I should.

I turn to head back to my bedroom, and she calls after me, “You really think silence is safer than truth?”

I stop halfway, then I look back down at her, standing there by the fire, framed by it, fury and the ghosts of people we both lost. “Silence,” I say, “is the only reason I’m still alive.”

I leave her standing there, because if I don’t put distance between us, I’m going to do something reckless—like pull her close and forget every damn rule I’ve ever made.

3

ABBY

Idon’t dream much anymore. Not since Nick died.

But tonight, sleep comes fast and hard, probably helped along by stew, exhaustion, and the sharp commands of a man who makes the walls feel like they’re closing in—and not in a bad way.

In the dream, I’m standing in a war zone. Not a stylized version, but something pulled straight from one of the books I’ve researched a hundred times. Black smoke curling into a darkening sky, the pop-pop-pop of distant gunfire, the metallic bite of blood in the air.

And Nick.

He’s there, solid and whole, not the missing-in-action shadow the military gave me. His uniform’s dirty, torn in places, and his rifle is slung low across his back. But his face is clean. Calm. The way he always looked when he knew more than he said.

I take a step forward, and the ground trembles.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches me, arms crossed, head tilted like he’s waiting for me to catch up. I reach for him, but my hand goes straight through his chest.

“Not that kind of dream,” he says, lips twitching just enough to make my heart lurch. “Don’t freak out.”

“I—Nick—what is this? Where are we?”

“You know where.”

“No, I don’t. None of it makes sense. They said it was a training accident. That you…”

“It didn’t happen that way.”

His voice cuts clean through the noise.

I freeze. “Then how did it happen?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks behind me, jaw tight.

“Trust Travis,” he says. “That’s all I can tell you. For now.”

“Why him?” I whisper. “Why not just tell me?”

His smile is sad this time. “Because knowing won’t keep you safe. Because he’s still breathing. And he might be the only reason you stay that way.”

The sound behind us grows louder. Sirens, shouting, the rumble of something collapsing. Nick reaches out like he might hug me, but I wake before he touches me.

The loft is warm. Quiet. But the dream clings to me like frost that won’t melt. I sit up, dragging the blanket tighter around myself, and glance down at the main room. Travis isn’t in sight, but there’s a low glow coming from somewhere behind the kitchen. Maybe he’s in his bedroom. Maybe he never went to sleep—he doesn’t strike me as the type who sleeps much.

Last night I laid my wet clothes in front of the fire. I run downstairs to fetch them and bring them back upstairs. My parka and boots are still wet, but everything else is dry and toasty warm. Once I’m dressed, I make my way down the stairs carefully, aware that every creak echoes like a shout in the silence. The wood floor’s cold under my bare feet, but the fire’s still going strong, logs crackling like they were just fed.

The snow’s still falling outside. I can see it through the big front windows, the thick flakes swirling like someone shook the entire forest. The world’s gone white.

Oh great, I’m snowed in with a man who makes growling feel like a full sentence and looks at me like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve. Fantastic.

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