Page 16 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

“I could make you leave.”

She sets the book down carefully on the arm of the couch, lifts her mug, and takes a sip before answering.

“You could try.”

And that does it. I’m across the room in three strides, standing over her, the air between us hot enough to blister. She tips her head back to meet my gaze, her body still, but her pulse visible in her throat.

I lean down, one hand braced on the couch back behind her, the other hovering just a breath away from her cheek. Close enough to touch, but I don’t. Not yet.

Her eyes don’t leave mine.

“You think I won’t?” I ask, low.

She tilts her head, the corner of her mouth curling into something that dares me to act.

“I think you’re fighting yourself harder than you’d ever fight me.”

She’s not wrong. Nick said his little sister was smart as a whip and read people like the back of her hand. He wasn’t wrong. Every instinct I have screams at me to back off. To keep the line between us solid. I’ve lived by rules—mine, the team’s, the ones that keep people alive. You don’t cross lines when lives are at stake.

But this woman... She’s not a mission. She’s not even an asset to protect. She’s herself. She’s Nick’s sister. She’s fierce and impossible, and standing in the middle of my world like she belongs there.

I drag in a breath, sharp and full of her scent, then back off, because if I touch her, I won’t stop.

Not this time. Not with her wearing my shirt like a damn invitation.

“You hungry?” I say, voice flat.

She blinks. That quick. That subtle. But I see the way her chest lifts, the breath she takes like she was bracing for something else.

“Depends. Are you cooking or threatening? I heated that stew. Left it simmering in case you were hungry when you got back.”

“You didn’t know I was coming back.”

She grins. “Yes, I did.”

I move to the kitchen without answering, grabbing a pan, eggs, bacon, and not looking back.

“You know,” she calls from behind me, “for a man who wants me gone, you sure feed me a lot.”

“Feeding you keeps you alive,” I mutter.

“Oh. So it’s survival. Good to know,” she says with a deliciously feminine chuckle.

I hear her feet hit the floor, then the soft pad of her steps crossing the room.

“You’ve got an entire system in place,” she says. “I’m messing it up, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

She’s quiet for a beat. And then, softly, “I won’t apologize for being here. I can’t.”

I crack the eggs. Toss bacon into the pan. The sizzle fills the silence.

“You shouldn’t,” I say.

She leans against the counter, too close, sipping from that damn mug like we didn’t just have a silent standoff that nearly melted the floorboards.

Her voice is quieter now. “You really don’t sleep much, do you?”

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