Page 36 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

I turn her to face me, slide my hands along her hips, anchor her close. “Now we wait. And then we kill him.”

She lifts her chin, eyes steady on mine. “You’re not going in alone.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Her smile is fast, wicked. “Good. Because if he thinks he’s going to walk away from this, he’s got no idea what team he just picked a fight with.”

I kiss her then—not because it’s safe or smart—but because she’s fire in my hands and I don’t want to forget the way her mouth tastes before the storm hits. She grips the front of my shirt, pulling me deeper.

Tonight, we make a plan. And maybe… maybe a promise.

We left the Inn, hoping to move the danger away from Misty Mountain. We’ve made our way back up to the cabin, taking a circuitous route, doubling back to make sure no one is following us. After I make a thorough sweep of the area and ensure the perimeter alarms are still intact, we move inside.

I watch her as the sun sets behind the pine-covered ridge, casting gold and fire across the frost-laced windows of the cabin. I stand near the stove, arms crossed, jaw tight. She's curled on the edge of the bed, laptop closed, the journal tucked beneath her arm like a shield she’s not planning to drop. I’m waiting for the panic, for her to crack, to second-guess what we just did. But it never comes.

She meets my gaze, chin up, eyes clear.

That’s when I know for sure—Abby Westwood isn’t a liability. She’s the blade you keep up your sleeve. The one they didn’t see coming.

Behind me, I hear her shifting—bare feet on the wood floor, the soft creak of the mattress. Her steps are slow, deliberate, like she’s trying not to startle me. Like she already knows something’s coming, and she’s giving me space to say it first.

“Travis,” she whispers.

I don’t turn. “You should sleep.”

“You think I can sleep after sending a direct challenge to a CIA ghost who wants me dead?”

I glance at her over my shoulder. She’s standing there in one of my flannel shirts again—damn woman keeps stealing them—and nothing else that I can see. It hangs off her like temptation stitched from cotton and bad ideas.

I stare too long. She notices.

“Problem?” she asks, lifting one eyebrow.

“Several,” I say.

She walks toward me, barefoot and brave, like she’s got no idea what I’m holding back. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she’s doing it. Poking the bear just to see how far I’ll let her push.

“You’re waiting for me to lose it,” she says.

I nod once. “Yeah.”

She stops a foot away, close enough I can smell the hint of lavender in her skin, the citrus shampoo she stole from Clara’s stash in the bathroom. “I’m not going to.”

“You should.”

Her voice is soft, but there’s no weakness in it. “You don’t get to decide when I break, Travis.”

I finally turn to face her fully, eyes locked on hers. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’m watching you. Preparing. I’ve seen what this kind of pressure does to people. You’re not trained for this.”

“No. But I’m not stupid. And I’m not fragile. Stop looking at me like I’m going to shatter if the wind hits too hard.”

I take a slow step toward her. “I know exactly how strong you are, Abby. I also know what it feels like when you’ve been holding it together for too long.”

She tilts her head, expression calm. “So maybe don’t stand there waiting for the fall. Maybe stand here with me. Where it matters.”

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