Page 13 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

I eventually wander into the kitchen and make myself useful. He didn’t offer, but I find eggs and cheese and whip together a frittata I could’ve made blindfolded. It’s the only thing I cook well, and even then, it’s mostly because it’s hard to screw up.

When he finally comes in, he pauses in the doorway, eyes flicking from the plate to me.

“You cook?”

“Survival skill. Kind of like growling at strangers and stockpiling canned goods.”

His brow rises, but he takes the plate. Sits at the table. Eats without comment.

“Thank you,” he says when he finishes, and it surprises me.

“You’re welcome.”

I curl up with one book from his library for the rest of the day after every offer of help was rebuffed, including cooking. Lunch was leftover stew, and dinner was the best pot roast I ever had. We don’t talk much during dinner.

Watching him move throughout the day has me making observations. For one thing, I watch him more than I should. The way he moves. The way he eats like it’s fuel, not pleasure. Everything about him is efficient. Controlled. A man used to surviving by rules and discipline, even when he’s not on a battlefield anymore.

After we clean up, I disappear to the loft to give him space—or maybe to give myself space.

The room is simple. A brass double bed. A nightstand. A small window looking out into the storm and a comfortable armchair from which to watch. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring out at the snow-covered woods, trying to shake the image of him in the doorway, watching me like he wanted to do something about the fire between us.

When I finally lie down, sleep doesn’t come easy. It’s the creak of the floorboards downstairs. The way the wind seems to press against the walls. The memory of his body just inches from mine.

I turn onto my side, pull the blanket over my shoulders, and curse my attraction to impossible men. None of them have ever been like Travis. I’ve never been more aware of a man in my life.

Every sound he makes. Every breath. Every glance that lingers too long, and it terrifies me more than the assassin in my apartment ever did.

Because this—whatever it is brewing between us—isn’t something I can outfight or outrun. It’s something I feel in my bones, and it’s only just begun.

4

TRAVIS

The next day she’s still asleep when I head out… or at least pretending to be.

Either way, I need space. Actual space. The kind that comes with wind in my face and a few miles between me and the woman upstairs who’s tearing holes in the quiet life I’d built.

Abby Westwood is a problem I didn’t plan for. She's loud in ways that have nothing to do with volume. She doesn’t shrink, doesn’t obey, doesn’t care that this cabin is my world, and I don’t let people in it.

She just walked right in, wrapped in fear, grief, stubbornness and a pair of eyes that see too damn much.

And now she’s here, sleeping in Nick’s blanket, eating my food, reading my damn books, and challenging every line I’ve drawn since the day I left the world behind.

I close the cabin door behind me, key the lock, and check the perimeter one more time. The snow stopped before dawn, but the wind left drifts waist-high in places. It’s not impassable, but it’s enough to make town a half-day endeavor unless I take the fast way down.

I walk to the shed, unchain the snowmobile, and tug the tarp off. The machine’s solid. Fueled, oiled, ready. I check it top-to-bottom anyway—habit. By the time I fire it up, I’ve mapped three alternate routes in my head, flagged every blind turn and tree hazard from here to Main Street.

The truth is, I don’t really need supplies. What I do need is time, space and movement. I need to stop hearing her voice in my head every time I close my eyes.

‘You’re scared too.’

She’s not wrong, and that’s the worst part.

The General Store hasn’t changed since I was a kid and spent my summers here. It still smells like cedar and tobacco and a hint of wood polish. Shelves stocked to the brim with everything from canned soup to ammo. The place is half necessity, half sanctuary, and it doesn’t matter how long I’ve been gone—folks around here remember me. Some nod. Some don’t. Most know better than to ask questions.

Jack Gregory stands behind the counter, old-school as they come. Plaid shirt, sleeves rolled, sandy blond hair, long beard and calloused hands. He’s a native, and we knew each other as kids. He kept an eye on my grandfather, who taught us both how to shoot before we hit puberty. He sees me walk in and raises one eyebrow like I’ve just risen from the dead.

“Snowmobile?” he asks.

---