Page 12 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

For a second, it’s just us, and I feel it again. That pull. It’s dangerous, magnetic.

Whatever this is, I have a feeling it’s only getting started.

Travis moves like the world owes him answers. Like he’s not waiting for permission—never has. Every step is deliberate, heavy without being loud. A walking contradiction of control and power wrapped in flannel and don’t-test-me silence.

He sets down the fire poker, still watching me like I’m the problem he hasn’t decided whether to solve or ignore.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I lift my chin, already sick of hearing it. “You’ve already said that… numerous times. You’re an author—words are supposed to be your stock-in-trade. Want to try a different approach?”

“You think this is a joke?”

“No. But I think you pushing me out into a blizzard because you’re uncomfortable isn’t exactly what Nick had in mind when he told me to find you.”

He straightens, eyes narrowing.

I don’t back down.

He wants me to. I can feel it in the way he stares—like he’s waiting for me to flinch, to apologize for throwing his life off-balance. But I’ve already survived more than I should havethis week, and being glared at by a grumpy, six-foot-something mountain man with a Grecian God-like physique isn’t enough to scare me off.

“I don’t do well with people in my space,” he says, voice low.

“Good thing I’m not people.”

That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost like a laugh. Almost.

“Look,” I say, stepping toward him, “if you’re trying to intimidate me, save it. I’m not easily intimidated. I’ve been sleeping with a knife under my pillow, and I have eaten nothing that didn’t come out of a vending machine since I left Philadelphia. If you want to throw me out, go ahead. But don’t pretend this is about me. You’re scared too.”

He takes a step toward me, and I immediately feel the difference. His size. His heat. His presence.

“Scared?” he repeats, voice rough.

I nod, forcing my heartbeat to stay level. “Of letting someone in. Of what might happen if you stop running.”

He’s in front of me now, so close I can feel the heat of him, smell the mix of pine, smoke, and whatever soap he uses that should probably be illegal.

“I’m not running,” he says. “I’m surviving.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not dying.”

The air between us goes electric. Neither of us moves, but we’re close enough to feel the pull—like if one of us leans in even a fraction, we’ll snap together.

His eyes drop to my mouth, then lift back to mine. “You’re trouble,” he says quietly.

“I’ve been called worse.”

We stay like that for a beat too long. His jaw clenches. I feel it more than see it. Like the man’s restraining himself from doing something reckless, and maybe I want him to stop restraininghimself. Just for a second. He stands for a moment more, but then he turns away.

He stalks toward the back of the cabin, muttering something under his breath I can’t quite catch. A string of curse words, maybe. A prayer. Possibly both.

I breathe out slowly, wrapping my arms around myself. The fire’s still crackling, the snow still falling, but everything feels different now. I sit back on the couch, grabbing a soft throw blanket and wrap it around me. My body is warm, but I’m wide awake. Adrenaline still buzzing through my veins from our verbal sparring match.

I don’t know what I expected… coming here. I didn’t expect him to be this. Not just the size and the strength, but the intelligence in his eyes, the way he watches everything like he’s already calculated the odds. He’s all sharp edges and hard truths, and I’ve always been the type of woman who pokes at sharp things just to see if they’ll bleed.

By mid-morning, the snowfall has thickened and nearly covered the windows. There’s no sound outside except wind and trees creaking under the weight of ice.

Inside, it’s too quiet. Travis has said little since our earlier exchange. He’s been fixing something in the mudroom/laundry, boots thudding against the floor like punctuation marks.

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