Page 18 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

My heart seizes in my chest. I recognize my brother instantly. Nick stands on the far left, arms crossed, grin cocky and bright. He looks younger, but it’s definitely him. And beside him—closer than the others—is Travis.

He’s different in the photo. Younger too, obviously, but also looser. Less guarded. There’s no beard, no permanent scowl. He’s laughing, mouth open mid-comment, hand gripping Nick’s shoulder like they’d known each other forever.

I stare at the photo, something heavy pressing against my chest. This wasn’t just a command. This wasn’t duty. This wasfamily. I brush a fingertip over the image—and that’s when it happens.

The window explodes.

Glass shatters with a scream, and I hit the floor before I know I’m moving. Something hisses past where I used to be standing. A second too late, I realize what it is. A bullet.

Heart hammering, I crawl behind the bedframe, keeping low. Dust is raining from the ceiling. The bedroom window’s nothing but a jagged hole now, the curtain flapping like a surrender flag.

Another shot rips through the silence, punching a hole in the dresser inches from where I just was.

Shit. Shit.

The front door slams open like a goddamn freight train has punched it, and then he’s there.

Travis.

All six-foot-something of fury and control, rifle slung across his back, face hard and eyes burning. Before I can even get a word out, he’s on me. One huge hand grips my upper arm, the other curls protectively around my waist as he yanks me into his body and spins us toward the wall, pinning me.

Not roughly, not cruelly—but completely. One arm braced against the wall by my head, the other pressed tight to my side. His chest is against mine, his hips locked low, his entire body forming a shield between me and whatever’s still out there.

I can barely breathe.

But it’s not fear keeping the air out of my lungs. It’s him.

His jaw is tight. His body coiled. He looks like he’s two seconds away from hunting down the shooter with his bare hands.

“Are you hurt?” His voice is a low rumble, deep and lethal.

“No,” I whisper. “I’m okay.”

His gaze rakes over me like he needs to confirm that himself. Hands glide over my arms, my waist, my hips, searching forblood or damage. When he finds none, he rests his forehead against mine for one fleeting moment, just long enough for me to feel the hammer of his heartbeat.

He shoves me behind him and drops to one knee near the window, peeking out through the ragged edges.

“Sniper,” he mutters. “Pine ridge. Long-range. Professional.”

Another round punches into the side of the cabin, spraying splinters.

“Living room. Now.” He pulls me with him, low and fast.

I don’t argue. We crouch-run through the cabin, ducking behind the couch as another shot blasts through the wall near the fireplace.

“Why now?” I whisper, heart racing.

“I don’t know.” His voice is a growl. “But someone followed you.”

“No,” I say. “I was careful.”

“Careful doesn’t matter,” he snaps. “Not when someone’s paid to find you.”

He lifts his rifle, eyes narrowing as he peeks out through a side window. Then he shifts, adjusts the angle. Calculating. Tracking.

I want to ask what he sees, but his whole body goes still.

“Got him,” he mutters.

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