Page 17 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

“I sleep enough.”

“Liar.”

I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She doesn’t flinch.

“I heard you last night,” she says. “You pace. You check the locks. You check them again.”

“I have habits.”

“You have scars.”

That hits way too close to home. I set the spatula down with a little more force than necessary and turn to face her fully. Her arms cross, mug tucked close, like she’s bracing for impact—but she doesn’t back down.

“You don’t know me,” I say.

“No,” she agrees. “But I want to.”

And damn it, if that doesn’t cut straight through everything I’ve built. The pan pops. Bacon snaps against the skillet. I turn back to it before I forget how to keep my hands to myself.

I serve her first. A full plate. She mutters a thank you and sits down at the table.

We eat in silence, the kind that buzzes with every word we aren’t saying. Every glance that lingers just too long. When we’re finished, I take her plate, wash it, and turn to find her watching me from across the counter again.

“I’m not leaving, Travis,” she says. “You can threaten, growl, intimidate all you want. But I’m not going anywhere until I get answers. And whether or not you like it, you need me here just as much as I need to be here.”

Her words echo in the silence like a lit match in a gas-soaked room, and I know she’s right. It’s exactly the reason I know why she’s dangerous—too damn dangerous. And it’s not just because of who she is or what she’s after.

It’s because, no matter how far I’ve run, how deep I’ve buried myself in these mountains—Abby Westwood is the first person who’s ever made me want to stop.

And that? That could change everything.

5

ABBY

Morning light cuts across the loft in slanted gold streaks, catching dust motes in the air like they’ve got nowhere better to be. I wish I could say I slept, but I didn’t. My body’s warm under the thermal blanket, but my thoughts have been doing laps since Travis stomped off to his bedroom last night, like the mountain couldn’t contain him anymore.

I don’t know what’s worse—his silence or the way he looks at me when he’s not saying anything. Like he’s torn between throwing me out and throwing me over his shoulder.

But it’s the silence that’s making me crazy. That and the truth I’m no closer to getting.

I shove the blanket aside, get dressed quickly, and glance out the window. Travis is outside, shirtless in the freezing weather under the early sun, chopping firewood like it personally insulted him. He moves with control and precision. Each swing of the axe lands with clean, brutal finality.

I bite my lip. Because this is not the time for hormones. I need answers, not abs.

I creep down the stairs, careful not to make a sound. The cabin is still, too still, the way it always gets when Travis isoutside. There’s something about the silence without him in it that makes the air feel heavier. Like the walls are holding their breath.

I pad barefoot across the floor, avoiding the boards I now know creak under too much pressure. I hesitate once, then head straight for the small hallway behind the kitchen. The one I hadn’t dared explore until now.

The door to his bedroom is slightly ajar. I push it open.

Inside, the space is dark and utilitarian—same as the rest of the cabin. Bed neatly made, no laundry in sight, no clutter. The dresser is what catches my eye. It’s tucked into the corner beneath the window, battered and scarred from use. Drawers closed, except one—it’s cracked half an inch open.

That’s basically an invitation, right?

I crouch and ease it open, careful to keep my fingers light. Inside, there’s a manila folder tucked beneath a few pairs of briefs—white, of course—and a worn leather notebook with what looks like water damage across the cover. I flip the folder open first.

Photographs—some grainy, some sharp. All military. Uniforms, sand, tactical gear. There’s one with six men standing in front of a helicopter, smiling like they’d just finished something impossible.

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