Page 42 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

Travis slides an arm around my waist, grounding me. His lips brush my temple before he speaks low enough only I can hear.

“It’s over.”

But I’m not so sure. Not yet. I look out the broken windows at the forest beyond. Somewhere out there, someone else might’ve helped Carlton. Someone might be watching, waiting for their turn. Because monsters like him don’t work alone. Not in operations like these.

I press closer to Travis, my hand gripping his shirt. “We’re not done.”

“No,” he says. “We’re just getting started.”

And as the deputies lead Carlton out into the snow, the sky opens above us. Thick flakes start to fall again—quiet, steady, a reminder that even after the storm, the mountain never sleeps.

12

TRAVIS

The wind bites sharply across the ridge, cutting through my jacket like it’s got a grudge. It’s colder than it should be in late March, the kind of cold that settles deep in your bones and makes the world feel quiet. Still.

I’ve walked this path a hundred times, maybe more. Mapped every tree, memorized every root that juts out just far enough to catch your boot if you’re not paying attention. Even now, with the threat gone and the bastard who brought hell to our doorstep locked in a black-site cell, I can’t stop circling. I check the perimeter without thinking, eyes scanning the tree line, ears tuned to the subtle shifts in wind and brush.

But there’s nothing. No distant rustle of boots on snow. No metallic click of a suppressed rifle bolt being drawn. Just pine needles shifting overhead and the distant caw of a raven perched on the upper tree line.

It’s over. I don’t trust how that feels. Peace doesn’t come easy for men like me. We’re built for storms, forged in noise. But this quiet? I know what it costs.

And now that it’s here, I have to figure out what the hell to do with it.

I head back down the path toward the cabin, boots crunching through the frost. The last of the sunlight cuts through the trees like gold glass, flaring off the iced branches and throwing shadows long and low across the slope. It’s beautiful up here. It always has been. But now it doesn’t feel empty.

Because she’s in it.

By the time I push open the cabin door, the scent of cedar and smoke wraps around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed. The fire’s going strong in the hearth, flames snapping against the iron grate. Abby’s curled up on the rug in front of it, laptop open on her thighs, her bare feet tucked under one of my old wool blankets.

She doesn’t look up right away. Her brow’s furrowed, mouth twitching with some internal monologue I wish I could hear. She bites the edge of her lip, then starts typing again, fast and sure.

I take a second and just watch her. She doesn’t know how still she gets when she’s thinking, how all the chaos in her calms down until she’s nothing but focus and firelight. She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts again—probably stolen off the back of the armchair. It hangs loose on her, sleeves rolled halfway up, buttons mismatched like she got distracted halfway through getting dressed.

Christ, she’s beautiful. And completely unaware of it.

I shut the door behind me and drop my gloves onto the counter. “You planning to sit there typing forever, or should I start dinner?”

Abby looks up, blinking like I yanked her out of a different world. “I was on a roll,” she says, eyes sparkling. “But I guess food is a good enough excuse to pause genius in progress.”

“Genius, huh?” I quirk an eyebrow and move toward the kitchen. “Must be modesty week.”

“Nope.” She grins, slapping the laptop closed and stretching her arms overhead with a theatrical groan. “I got an email from the acquisitions editor at Liberty Quill Press.”

That makes me pause mid-reach for the skillet. I turn back toward her, leaning a hip against the counter. “The one you submitted the manuscript to under the pseudonym?”

She nods, bouncing a little where she sits. “They want it. Formal offer. Multi-book deal if I want it. They think I’m some ex-military guy writing suspense fiction under a pen name. Apparently, the gritty realism really sold it.”

I stare at her for a beat, then shake my head with a low laugh. “They think a six-foot former sniper named ‘Jacob Steele’ is the one writing smartass heroines and trauma-savvy mountain men?”

“Oh, yeah.” She bites back a laugh. “They said the intimacy scenes were ‘surprisingly nuanced.’ Their words, not mine.”

I cross the room in a few strides, crouch beside her, and take her face in my hand. She sobers immediately, blinking up at me as I slide my thumb across her cheek.

“I’m proud of you, Abs,” I say, voice quiet. “Not for the deal. That’s good, but not it. I’m proud you didn’t let fear keep you from putting your words out there. That you’re doing it your way.”

She bites her bottom lip, and this time, I don’t let it slide. I lean in and kiss her—slow, firm, the kind of kiss that says I see you. I’m not going anywhere.

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