Page 14 of Protector of Talon Mountain

That stops her.

She exhales and slowly uncurls her fingers. There are red marks where his grip had been. Nothing broken, but too firm for comfort. I reach out and run my thumb along the inside of her wrist, careful but sure. Her skin’s warm. Soft. She doesn’t pull away.

“Next time, don’t talk to guys who show up like that,” I say, eyes still on her wrist.

“I wasn’t talking. He followed me out when I came to put the sign up.”

My jaw ticks. “Then next time, call me.”

She blinks, caught off guard. “It happened fast.”

“I can be fast when I need to be.”

Her breath catches, just for a second. Not because of what I said. Because of how I said it—calm, final, as if it’s a promise I’ve already decided to keep.

She eases her hand back slowly; her gaze locked on mine. “You can’t be everywhere, Zeke… not all the time.”

“No,” I say. “But I can be here. When it counts.”

She opens her mouth like she wants to say something else, then closes it again.

I let the silence hang, then nod toward the café. “The lights are still on inside. You locking up, or am I doing it for you?”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “I was getting to it.”

“Not fast enough.”

She shakes her head with a soft laugh and turns, walking back toward the door. I follow her in, making sure it’s locked tight behind us, eyes still scanning the street even after he’s long gone.

Because whoever that guy was? I don’t like the way he looked at her. And I sure as hell don’t like that he thought she was alone.

Inside the café, Sadie moves behind the counter with that kind of deliberate calm that only comes from trying too damn hard not to shake. She grabs a rag, starts wiping down a surface that’s already spotless, and doesn’t look at me for a solid thirty seconds. I don’t move. Just lean back against the locked door and watch her hands. Her fingers drift to her wrist and rub over it absently, like she’s trying to erase the imprint that sonofabitch left behind.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask again, keeping my voice low.

She nods—too quickly. “Yeah. It was nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing. I don’t call her on it. I just keep watching her hands.

Sadie’s the type who holds herself together even when she’s cracked down the middle. I can see it now—the tension in her jaw, her shoulders drawn too high, the way her eyes keep flicking around like she’s replaying it all in her head on a loop.

“Thank you, though,” she says after a beat, finally glancing at me. “For stepping in.”

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but my stare doesn’t soften. “You don’t have to thank me for doing what any decent man should’ve done.”

She gives a faint smile and looks away. “You’d be surprised how many don’t.”

That hits harder than it should. I don’t ask what she means, even though part of me wants to. Not tonight. She’s still rattled. Barely holding the line. She keeps wiping the same damn spot on the counter until she finally catches herself and straightens. Her hand drifts to her wrist again.

“Who was he?” I ask, voice steady.

She blinks, then looks away. “Just someone from out of town.”

The lie’s smooth… practiced and total bullshit.

I let the silence linger between us, clear and understood. I'm not here to corner her—especially not in the space she's accustomed to navigating. That doesn't mean I believe her. I observe her eyes, the overly nonchalant shrug, and how her fingers instinctively drift back to her wrist as if driven by reflex, not intention.

I’ve seen plenty of people lie. Most of them have better poker faces. Sadie’s not lying because she’s hiding something she did. She’s lying because she thinks it’s safer if I don’t know.

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