Page 23 of Protector of Talon Mountain

“Not even a little.”

She exhales through her nose. Frustrated. Amused. Maybe both. She pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders and steps out, letting the door fall shut behind her with a click. I lock it, double check it, and fall into step beside her as if it’s already been decided—which, let’s be clear, it has.

The wind cuts between buildings, snapping down the side streets like it’s chasing something. She pulls her scarf up, face half-hidden. Her boots crunch against the gravel, steady, but she walks fast, like she’s trying to stay one step ahead of whatever’s been breathing down her neck lately.

I don’t talk. Don’t fill the air just to hear myself, neither does she. But the silence this time isn’t awkward. It’s tense. Like a coiled wire between us—tight, humming with something sharp. Awareness. Hesitation. Heat.

When we turn the corner onto her street, she slows. Finally she asks, “You always this protective?”

“Only when I think someone needs it.”

“And you’ve decided I do?”

“I don’t decide. I observe. You’re jumpy. You don’t ask for help. You flinch when someone touches you—even when it’s gentle. You pretend to be okay even when you’re not.” I glance over at her. “That’s need, Sadie. Doesn’t make you weak. Makes you a target.”

She’s quiet for a long beat. Then, “So I’m a target?”

I nod. “And someone’s hoping you’ll break.”

Her mouth opens. Then closes again. I let it hang.

We walk another half block in silence before she breaks it again. “You don’t talk about yourself much, do you?”

I shrug. “Nothing to say.”

“You’ve got the look of a man who’s got a lot to say.”

I give her the barest glance. “Are you asking, deflecting, or fishing?”

Her shoulders rise like she’s laughing without a sound. “Just trying to even the field. You push. You watch. You show up when I don’t ask you to.”

“You’re not telling me to stop.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Then do it.”

She doesn’t.

We reach the edge of her walkway. The porch light is on, casting a low amber glow across the slats. The wind’s stronger here, coming in off the bay behind her house. Her hair has come loose in the front. One stubborn curl brushes her cheek. I want to tuck it behind her ear, but I don’t… not yet.

Instead, I say, “Who left the note?”

She goes still.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, but it’s too fast. Too clipped.

“You’re a terrible liar. Besides, trying to lie to me is futile.”

She turns her face away, jaw tight. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing leaves ink that red and letters that angry.”

She stiffens.

“I saw you fold it and put it in your pocket last night.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “You were watching me?”

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