Page 6 of Shadow of Misty Mountain

All of six foot six and built like someone carved him from stone and dared him to flinch. He fills the doorway, broad and still, eyes sharp and unreadable under a furrowed brow. He keeps his beard trimmed close, and his jaw is tighter than the muscles flexing beneath his flannel shirt.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just waits and watches.

I clear my throat. “Hi. Um. My name is Abby Westwood.”

His eyes narrow, but he still doesn’t move.

“You knew my brother,” I add. “Nick. Nick Westwood.”

He steps forward before I can finish the sentence, grabbing my upper arm. “Inside. Now.” His voice is like gravel and full of command.

I don’t argue. I step over the threshold, and the door slams shut behind me.

2

TRAVIS

Iknow the second she steps onto my land.

The wind carries sound different out here—subtle changes in rhythm and footfall that no one who hasn’t spent years listening for ambush would ever notice. Her steps are light but purposeful, hesitating just once before committing to the incline. She’s either bold, stupid, or desperate. Probably some combination of all three.

I track her through the trees from the loft window. Small frame. Hood pulled low. Boots that weren’t made for this kind of terrain. She’s probably soaked through, moving slower than she wants to, like her body’s close to calling it quits. But she doesn’t stop.

She reaches the porch. Raises her hand.

I open the door before she knocks.

And there she is. Abby Westwood. I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

Golden curls sticking out from under a knit hat tucked under the hood of her parka, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes wide and too bright. She’s smaller than I remember from the one time Nick showed me a photo—softer maybe—but her gaze is steady. Direct. She looks me square in the face, even though I know I’vegot to look like something out of a survivalist’s nightmare. Broad frame, flannel and combat boots. My beard is rough enough to catch snowflakes.

Her chin lifts half an inch. Brave. Or pretending to be.

“Hi. Um. My name is Abby Westwood.”

The name hits like a fist to the sternum.

I don’t blink.

“You knew my brother. Nick. Nick Westwood.”

I step forward and grab her arm. Not hard. Just enough to haul her inside and slam the door shut behind her. The temperature shift alone will knock her flat if she stands there too long, and I’m not about to have someone collapse on my damn porch, especially not Nick’s little sister.

She stiffens under my hand but doesn’t pull away. Smart girl.

I release her and walk past, already assessing. Her boots are soaking wet. Pants drenched from the climb. Her coat’s zipped all the way to the top, but I can tell she’s shivering. She smells like snow, pine, and just beneath it—something warm. Clean. Feminine.

I tell myself to ignore that part.

“You come up here alone?” I ask without looking back.

“Yes.”

“You always throw yourself into danger without a plan?”

I hear the hesitation before she answers. “No, but then I didn’t plan on someone trying to murder me in my sleep.”

That gets my full attention.

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