Page 43 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

When I pull back, her eyes are softer. “You’re going to make me cry,” she murmurs.

I brush her hair back behind her ear. “Go ahead. I’ll still feed you.”

She lets out a watery laugh, pressing her forehead to mine. “I don’t know what this world is, Travis. All I know is, when you walk into a room, it stops spinning.”

“Good,” I growl. “Because I plan on staying in it.”

We sit there for a long moment, heat from the fire brushing over our skin, the cabin wrapped in a silence that feels earned. Safe.

She shifts then, tugging the blanket around her shoulders. “They don’t know it’s me,” she says after a beat. “The publishing house. They think the author is a man. I used the alias for a reason.”

I nod. “Because the work should speak for itself. Not your name.”

Her smile fades into something more thoughtful. “And because if the wrong people knew what I wrote, what I had access to... it wouldn’t be safe. Not yet.”

I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her into my side. “We’ve got time to figure that out. No one’s coming for you anymore.”

She leans her head against my shoulder. “Feels like I should be doing something.”

“You are,” I say, kissing the top of her hair. “You’re breathing. You’re healing. You’re writing, and you’re loving me.”

She tilts her head to look up at me, eyebrows raised. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re trying to be emotionally supportive.”

“Don’t spread it around,” I deadpan. “It’ll ruin my image.”

“Too late.” She grins. “All of Misty Mountain knows you’re basically a marshmallow in plaid now.”

I roll my eyes and stand, dragging her up with me. “Come on. You make the salad, I’ll cook the meat.”

She makes a face. “Ugh. Greens?”

“Fiber,” I say firmly.

“Bossy,” she shoots back, already moving toward the kitchen with a bounce in her step.

“Damn right.”

And for the first time in years—maybe ever—I let myself believe this could be it. Not just survival. Not just keeping ahead of the dark. But living.

I fire up the skillet and grab the venison steaks from the fridge. Abby rifles through the produce bin, muttering to herself about what qualifies as ‘edible leaves.’ I watch her from the corner of my eye, already cataloging the way she moves, the way she hums off-key when she thinks I’m not listening.

This woman stormed into my life like she belonged here—and now I can’t picture it without her.

She spins on her heel suddenly, a handful of arugula clutched in one hand. “So what happens now?”

I flip the steaks, the sizzle loud in the small space. “Now?” I glance over my shoulder at her. “Now we build something that lasts. Quiet. Wild. Ours.”

She walks over, barefoot and brave, and wraps her arms around my waist from behind.

“I like the sound of that,” she murmurs into my back.

Good. Because I plan to give her every damn thing she’s ever been too scared to ask for.

She’s curled into my side like she was made to fit there. One hand pressed against my ribs, her cheek tucked under my jaw. Dinner’s long gone. Dishes washed. Lights low. The cabin’s quiet except for the pop and crackle of the fire still going strong in the hearth. I keep it burning because I like the glow on her skin, the way it paints her in gold and amber like something you don’t find twice.

She’s reading again. I can feel her lips move against my chest as she silently mouths the lines in the dog-eared paperback shefound tucked on the shelf earlier. She has said nothing for the past twenty minutes, but I know she’s awake. I can feel her fingers tracing idle shapes against my stomach through the worn cotton of my shirt. Every now and then, they pause like she’s considering something—then keep going.

“Say it,” I tell her without opening my eyes.

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