Page 35 of Protector of Talon Mountain

He steps even closer now, our bodies inches apart, the air between us burning hotter than the ovens ever get. “I can handle this,” he says. “But I need to know what I’m up against. No more half-truths. Not when it comes to you.”

His hand slides to the back of my neck, the pressure firm enough to anchor me but never forceful. My breath catches, heart thundering against my ribs like it’s trying to answer before my mouth can.

I nod, slowly. “Okay.”

Zeke studies me a beat longer, eyes scanning every inch of my face like he’s committing it to memory.

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’m not letting this go.”

And for the first time, I think I’m done pretending I want him to.

Zeke doesn’t move for a long second after I say it. After I give him the truth in pieces, jagged and trembling. He just watches me, and I swear the air goes still between us. I expect something—questions, anger, some kind of reaction that will make this harder. But he doesn’t give me that. He doesn’t flinch or tighten or pace the way Brent used to when things didn’t go his way.

Instead, he says nothing.

Then, softly, like a vow carved in stone, “He won’t come back.”

It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Just absolute.

Something in me cracks open. I don’t mean to break. Not here. Not in front of him. But the words hit harder than I expect. Not because I doubt him. But because I believe him. Because he says it like it’s already settled. Like this war I’ve been fighting in my head, bracing for in my bones, has already ended and I just didn’t know it yet.

My eyes burn, and I blink fast, but it’s no use. The breath I try to draw in gets stuck halfway, and suddenly I’m not standing on my own anymore.

Zeke moves before I can fall apart completely. He steps in, wraps one brawny arm around my shoulders, the other hand flat and steady on the small of my back. And that’s it. No speeches. No reassurances. Just heat and strength and the scent of cedar and smoke that always clings to him like the past isn’t something he outran—it’s something he buried.

I curl into him before I can think better of it. My forehead presses against his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft against my skin, and I breathe him in like I’m starving for air. His heartbeat is steady beneath my cheek, calm in a way mine isn’t. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against him. “I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you this morning.”

He doesn’t answer. Just tightens his hold. One hand comes up, slides through my hair, not to fix anything—just to remind me he’s here.

And I let myself stay there. Just for a minute. Maybe two.

It’s too long. It’s not long enough.

This is the part I usually run from—the part where needing someone turns into leaning on them, even just for a moment. I’ve been doing everything alone for so long it’s fused into my bones. But Zeke doesn’t feel like a crutch. He feels like a wall. Solid. Built for weathering storms as if he was made to hold the line.

And right now, I need that more than I want to admit.

His chin brushes the top of my head when he finally speaks again. “You don’t have to apologize for trusting me.”

I pull back slowly, breath catching on the edge of a sigh I don’t want to release. My hands still rest on his chest, and I can feel every breath he takes beneath my palms. Every beat of that calm, controlled heart.

“I don’t do this,” I say, quieter now. “Let people in.”

Zeke’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then don’t waste it on someone who won’t carry the weight.”

God. That’s the thing with him. He says stuff like that and doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t say it like it’s supposed to be romantic. Just says it, because it’s true. And it lands harder than anything sweet ever could.

I look at him for a second too long, then step back, needing space before I do something reckless—like pull him in again.

“I need to prep the next batch of rolls,” I say, trying to ground myself in routine again.

Zeke nods, but doesn’t leave. He just leans against the counter, watching me, eyes unreadable but not unkind. “I’ll stay until Jenny gets here.”

“You don’t have to.”

He just arches an eyebrow. “That was cute. Try again.”

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