Page 20 of Protector of Talon Mountain

He holds my gaze for a long beat. “I’m not off, Sadie. I’m exactly as I seem. That’s the difference.”

And the worst part is—I believe him.

The day rolls forward in a blur of coffee, orders, laughter that feels slightly off-kilter, and the steady churn of routine trying its best to drown out everything under my skin. It mostly works—until the shift ends and the café empties and there’s nothing left between me and the silence I’ve spent years learning how to survive.

Jenny’s gone. I wash the last mug. I count the money in the register drawer and close it.

And I’m alone.

I lock the front and head out back to put out the trash, lock up and head for my cottage. A second to breathe. To shake out the strange tightness that’s curled under my ribs since this morning, since Zeke walked into the kitchen like it was his to walk through.

I get to the cottage and let myself in. I don’t turn on the lights. Instead, I walk straight to the dresser, pull open the top drawer, and stare down at the folded piece of paper shoved beneath a pair of wool socks. The note.

I haven’t looked at it since the night it appeared. But I feel it. Like it hums. Like it’s still speaking even when I try not to listen.

KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

I pick it up, unfold it, and read it again. Same red ink. Same message. No signature. No doubt.

My fingers twitch. I want to burn it--strike a match, watch it curl and blacken into ash. I want to erase it like it never existed, like that part of me—the part that used to cower—no longer answers to this kind of threat.

But I don’t burn it. Instead, I fold it into a tight square and tuck it into my coat pocket.

The air outside bites, cold and still; even so I step onto the porch, wrapping my arms around myself and stare out at the bay. Normally, I do that from the comfort and warmth of my home, but sometimes when something rattles loose inside me and I can’t figure out how to cage it again, I need the frigid air to enter me. I breathe in deeply and feel the calm settle over me.

Footsteps crunch behind me a minute later. I don’t turn. I know it’s him. Zeke doesn’t announce himself. He steps onto the porch as if someone invited him. Like it’s his right.

I hear the creak of the wood under his boots as he leans against the railing beside me, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the dark line where the bay meets the sky. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. We just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, silence between us like a held breath.

The wind gusts off the water, sharp and dry. I take in a deep breath and then exhale slowly.

“You got people here who don’t want to be seen?” His voice is quiet, but it carries.

I stare straight ahead. “I’ve got people who want me invisible.”

Zeke’s jaw clenches hard. I hear it more than see it—the flex of muscle, the way his whole body tightens like violence might be the only answer he trusts. “That ends now.”

The words don’t come soft. They land like a command. And maybe I should bristle—maybe I should push back, remind him I’ve been handling myself for years. But I don’t. Because something in the way he says it—controlled, measured, absolute—makes the fear in my chest quiet just a little.

“You don’t even know what I’m dealing with,” I say, trying for distance that doesn’t quite stick.

“I don’t need to know yet,” he says. “I’ll find out. But whoever thinks they can threaten you? They picked the wrong town… and the wrong sheriff.”

My heart jumps. It’s not romantic—not in the flowers-and-love-songs way. It’s something deeper. Older. Like protection that doesn’t need permission. I glance over at him, and even in the dark, I can see the intensity in his face. Not anger. Focus.

“I can take care of myself,” I say, softer this time.

“I don’t doubt it,” he answers, and it sounds like truth. “But now you don’t have to do it alone.”

That undoes something in me. It’s not fear. Not exactly. But it flutters low in my belly, sharp and warm. It coils through my veins and pulses beneath my skin. Want, maybe. Or the terrifying possibility that I’m beginning to trust him, and I don’t know if that’s safer—or more dangerous—than the note in my pocket.

The kitchen in the cottage is still. Not quiet in the empty way. Quiet in theheld breathkind of way.

Zeke left ten minutes ago, his boots thudding down the porch steps, his shadow swallowed by the dark. I watched him go from the window, heart still pulsing in my throat like I’d just outrun something even though I hadn’t moved an inch.

I’ve been on my own for a long time. Even when I wasn’t technically alone. Even when Brent was breathing down my neck and calling it love. I’ve forgotten what it felt like to have someone mean it when they say they’ll keep you safe.

And Zeke… he means it. That’s the problem.

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