Page 41 of Protector of Talon Mountain

His hands find my wrists, pinning them above my head with one smooth motion. Not rough. Not too tight. Just enough to make my breath catch. His mouth is everywhere—collarbone, sternum, the soft underside of my breast that no one’s ever bothered to kiss like it mattered.

He pulls back, just enough to look down at me. His eyes are dark, blazing, wild in a way Zeke lets no one else see.

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he says, his voice gravel and smoke. “But I’ll put you back together, too. You ready for that?”

I nod. I can’t speak. I am ready. I want this. Want him.

He shifts, one knee parting my thighs, and I feel the full length of him press against the place I’m already aching. I gasp, fingers flexing, hips rising. The friction is perfect. Insistent. My whole body is trembling now, wired tight with anticipation.

“Zeke,” I whisper, not sure if I’m pleading or praising.

“Say it again,” he growls.

“Zeke…”

He leans down, capturing my mouth in a kiss that’s nothing like the ones we’ve shared so far. This one is possession. Heat. The edge of something dangerous and beautiful. I moan into him, hips rocking, thighs tightening.

Then he pushes inside me—thick and deep and perfect—and I…

I bolt upright in bed, sweat slick across my chest and neck, the sheets twisted around my hips like they’re trying to hold me in place. My breath’s ragged. Thighs tight. My heart is still pounding, and the echo of his name is stuck in my throat.

I drag a hand over my face and whisper a curse into the dark. That wasn’t just a dream. It wasn’t just lust, either. It was need. Bone-deep need. Coiled in my chest and between my legs like it’s been waiting for permission. Like everything I’ve been pushing down finally clawed its way free in the safety of sleep.

I fall back against the pillows, chest heaving, my nipples still tight and tingling against the soft cotton of my sleep shirt. Everything inside me is still vibrating. His name is still on my lips. My thighs squeeze together instinctively, chasing some echo of friction that’s long since faded.

I cover my face again and groan. Jesus, I’m in trouble. Because that dream didn’t feel made up. It felt inevitable. I let myself feel it for another breath—two. The weight of his hands, the rough heat of his voice, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

When I finally drag myself out of bed, the chill in the cottage cuts right through the heat still thrumming low in my belly, but it doesn’t dull it completely.

I pad barefoot to the kitchen, fill the kettle with shaking hands, and stare out the window as the water starts to boil. The woods beyond are dark and quiet, but I don’t feel alone. Not in the scary way. Not anymore.

I feel watched. But not like prey. It’s more like I’ve already been claimed, and the mountain’s just waiting for me to figure it out. I laugh at myself, savoring the sound and the feeling it provokes.

By the time I pour the tea, I know the truth. I want Zeke. Not just his protection. Not just his steadiness. I want him. All of him. The dominant, intense, frustrating man who sees through every wall I’ve ever tried to build. The man who kissed me like he could already taste the rest of me. Who pulled back because he wants it to mean something more.

I take a long sip, set the mug down, and look out at the trees again.

“I’m ready,” I whisper.

And this time, I mean it.

* * *

I’ve never spent this much time choosing a damn sweater. It’s stupid. Or at least, it should be. But this morning, everything feels sharper—like I’m moving through the world with skin a little too thin. Zeke’s kiss still echoes in my body like thunder in the mountains, low and rolling, promising more. And that dream?

I flush just thinking about it. It wasn’t just vivid. It was honest. Like my subconscious finally got sick of waiting for the rest of me to catch up. So now I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, my closet wide open behind me, heart pounding like I’m about to do something reckless and irreversible.

I settle on a soft charcoal sweater that clings in the right places without looking like I’m trying too hard. Skinny jeans. Brown leather boots. And for the first time since I moved to Glacier Hollow, I wear my hair down. Not half-up. Not in a bun. Loose. Soft.

Then I reach for the mascara. Just one coat. Enough to make my lashes frame my eyes. A touch of color on my cheeks. A little gloss. That’s it. Nothing dramatic. But it’s intentional… and that’s what matters.

I grab my coat and keys, check the locks out of habit, and step into the cold. The walk to the café takes longer than it should—not because of the distance, but because I can’t stop rehearsing what I might say if he looks at me the way he did last night. If he touches me again.

By the time I push open the back door, the sky’s still mostly dark. The kitchen smells like lemon cleaner and day-old bread. My boots pad across the hardwood as I flick on the lights and move to prep like I always do—only this time, I feel like I’m vibrating under my skin.

I’m halfway through rolling out dough when I hear the stairs creak… Zeke. I don’t need to look. I feel him. Besides, who else would it be? It’s like gravity just changed direction. My chest tightens, pulse jumping in my throat. I keep kneading, trying to pretend my hands are steady when they aren’t.

He says nothing at first. Just moves around the kitchen like he belongs there—because, well, he does. We fall into our rhythm. Me prepping scones. Him checking locks and resetting the café’s security system. I glance up once, catch his eyes lingering on me. Not in a way that makes me feel self-conscious. In a way that says he sees everything—the mascara, the hair, the gloss. His eyes heat, but he doesn’t call me on it.

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