Page 11 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

I walk toward the kitchen, taking in more of the space than I had last night. His cabin is pure function—everything dark, solid, built for utility. Leather and wood. No art on the walls. No soft throw pillows or curated trinkets. Just what he needs, and nothing more.

Except… I open a small door near the back hallway. I expect a broom closet. What I get is a library. Not a big one. Just shelves built into the wall, but it’s full—paperbacks, hardcovers, some worn, others pristine. Genres I recognize, titles I’ve read and done the research for, even a few dog-eared thrillers with highlighted notes in the margins.

I pull one down—Deadfall Protocol, his second book. There’s a post-it stuck to a page near the middle.

“Rewrite—make the sniper more like Nick. Cocky. Always two steps ahead.”

My throat tightens. This man, who practically growled me into submission last night, who lives like a ghost in a mountain fortress, annotated his manuscript with my brother in mind.

There's a desk tucked against the far wall, clean except for a closed laptop, a neat stack of index cards, and a black fountain pen. There’s a kind of discipline here, but not cold. Not distant. It's intentional. Controlled… like him.

I close the book and slide it back into place just as I hear boots behind me.

“You don’t take orders well,” Travis says from the doorway. His voice is still like gravel smoothed with heat.

I turn. He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a fresh thermal shirt that hugs his broad frame a little too well for polite thoughts. His hair’s still damp. Must’ve showered.

“I didn’t touch anything,” I say, even though that’s a lie.

“You touched the books.”

“Technically, books don’t count as ‘things’ in my world. They’re sacred.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Try again.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Yes, I looked. No, I didn’t break anything. You going to punish me or just lecture me into oblivion?”

That makes something flicker in his gaze. Something sharp. And hot.

“You dream?” he asks, ignoring the question.

It throws me. “What?”

“Last night. You looked… restless.”

“I—yeah.” I don’t know why I tell him. “Nick. He showed up. Said it didn’t happen the way they claimed. Told me to trust you.”

Travis doesn’t react the way I expect. No eye roll. No scoff.

Just a slow, deep inhale, and then, “He always was too damn loyal.”

I take a step closer. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

His jaw tightens. “Because knowing won’t keep you safe.”

“But it might help me understand why someone tried to kill me.”

His eyes pin me in place. “Or it might get you killed. You’re safer not knowing—for now.”

He steps into the room, moving past me as if to ensure I haven’t stolen anything. I don’t follow. I watch. He calculates every movement he makes. Controlled. Like he’s spent his entire life walking a line no one else can see.

“You always this bossy in the morning?” I ask.

He glances back at me. “You haven’t seen bossy yet.”

The way he says it sends a thrill down my spine. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stands, eyes holding mine, and for a second, I forget about everything else—Nick, the break-in, the snowstorm trapping me here.

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