Page 25 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

But damn it, I’m not a porcelain doll or a civilian casualty waiting to happen. I’m Nick Westwood’s sister. I’m a researcher—a damn good one—and I don’t crumble just because someone tells me to sit still.

And yet, I let him lead. I let him shield me. I let him kiss me like I belonged to him.

Which—newsflash—I absolutely do not.

Hank had moved me down to the Hollow Tree, saying he thought I’d be more comfortable and that he’d cleared it with Travis. I wish he hadn’t said that. Somebody ought to check with me about these things. But looking around the lovely room, I decide not to take umbrage.

I toss my bag onto the bed, pace the room once, then stop in front of the mirror. I see my reflection staring back: windburned cheeks, frizz from hell, and wide eyes that can’t seem to decide whether to be furious or shaken.

“You kissed him,” I say out loud. “You kissed a man who uses words like orders and stares like he’s calculating your pulse rate.”

And I’d do it again. God help me, I’d do it again.

There’s a knock on the door. I yank it open without thinking and nearly get smacked in the face with a cardboard to-go tray stacked with three different takeout containers and another one of those enormous and delicious cinnamon rolls.

“Delivery,” Clara says, breezing in past me like she owns the room. “Brought by your friendly local enabler.”

“I—Clara, what is all this?”

“Dinner. Snacks. Bribery. Take your pick.” She sets the tray down on the desk and then spins on her heel, returns to close and lock the door, then faces me, hands on hips. “So. Want to tell me why you look like you either committed a felony or just had the best sex of your life?”

I gape at her. “Clara!”

“What? I know that look.”

“There was no sex.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“There was a kiss. Which I started. And immediately regretted.”

Clara perches on the edge of the bed and arches one eyebrow. “You regretted kissing a six-foot-six, built like-a-canyon, survivalist author with haunted eyes and a jawline that could cut steel?”

I sit heavily on the chair across from her. “Okay, when you say it like that…”

She grins. “Look, I’m not judging. Travis Holt is like… the human version of those mystery thrillers you binge at three a.m. Dark, dangerous, and way too addictive.”

“That’s the problem. I am addicted. And I don’t know why. Half the time I want to strangle him, the other half I want to straddle him.”

Clara bursts out laughing. “That’s the tagline, right there. ‘He makes me want to strangle and straddle him—sometimes at the same time.’”

I groan and bury my face in my hands. “This is bad. I don’t do this. I don’t chase impossible men. I certainly don’t make out with them in reinforced bedrooms while bullets fly. And I never admit to any of it.”

Her voice softens. “You’ve had a hell of a week, Abs. And the way I see it? You’re doing your best. Which, frankly, is a lot better than most would do in your boots.”

I lift my head. “You think I’m crazy for staying?”

“No. I think you’re brave. Maybe a little reckless. But not crazy. You came here for answers. You found a man who’s either part of the solution or part of the storm. And you’ve survived everything they’ve thrown at you so far.”

I swallow hard, heart aching. “I just want to know what happened to Nick.”

“And I think you will,” Clara says gently. “But you also need to be ready for the truth when it comes.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

She stands and brushes her hands together. “Okay. Eat your carbs. Read your books. And if you kiss him again, own it and take notes. I’m going to want details, lots and lots of details..”

I laugh despite myself. “Thanks, Clara.”

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