Page 49 of Protector of Talon Mountain

“Yeah, Nate, Caleb and Travis.”

“Travis is an ex-SEAL?”

“Former, babe. Once you’re special ops anything—SEAL, Ranger, Force Recon—you’re always one. If you no longer work for the military, you may be former, but never ex.”

She grins and shakes her head, exhaling like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. Maybe she has. But she doesn’t step away, and I don’t let go.

* * *

The new cameras for the café and Sadie’s cottage go in faster than I expect. I’d already had the basics—motion sensors, wireless feeds, entry points locked—but this? This is different. Thermal imaging. AI-based motion alerts. Full perimeter, real-time uplink to my secure feed. I’m not taking chances anymore. Not with Sadie.

She’s in the kitchen, pretending not to watch me drill a new mount above the window that faces the woods. I can feel her eyes on my back, a soft hum of curiosity and worry stitched together.

“It’ll be next to impossible to take a shower without one of these things lighting up,” she says, voice wry.

I glance over my shoulder, meet her gaze. “Good. Then I’ll know you’re safe even if I’m not here.”

She bites her bottom lip, the way she does when she’s unsure if she should push. “Zeke… this feels like a lot.”

“It is,” I say, straightening. “Because the threat isn’t low anymore, Sadie. You finding that note today? That wasn’t a bluff. That was escalation.”

She stiffens slightly, arms wrapping around herself. The memory of it is fresh—white envelope tucked into her mailbox, no return address, no stamp. Just her name scrawled in that same jagged hand as before. She hadn’t meant for me to see it. Tried to hide it, fold it away into her coat pocket like it was something to unpack later. But I caught her. And this time, I didn’t let her lie.

“I told you I wouldn’t let you do this alone,” I say. “That wasn’t conditional. I meant it.”

Sadie doesn’t argue. She just nods, the motion is small and solemn. “I know. I just… it’s hard. Having someone worry about me like this. I’m not used to it.”

I set the drill down and cross the room. My hands find her waist, pull her in until her body melts against mine like she’s been waiting for this. She always does. “Get used to it. Because I’m not going anywhere. And neither are those cameras.”

Her breath catches. “Okay,” she whispers.

I press a kiss to her temple, then her cheek. Her arms slide around my back, and I feel the tension in her slowly fade.

By the time I finish mounting the last unit, it’s late. She’s still in the studio, curled in my chair with her legs tucked under her, one of my flannels draped over her shoulders. She looks small like that—like something I could carry, protect, hide from the rest of the damn world. And she’s watching me again, eyes soft and full of something she hasn’t named yet.

I lock the windows. Bolt the door. Then I turn and nod toward the bed. “You staying?”

She doesn’t answer with words. Just stands slowly and walks over to me, pulls the flannel tighter, then nods once. “I don’t want to go back to my place tonight.”

“You won’t.”

I dim the lights, draw the blackout curtains, and give her space. She disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes, and when she returns, she’s wearing one of my shirts—black cotton, hangs off her shoulder, stops mid-thigh. She looks better in it than I ever have. Both my chest and groin tighten. She’s not doing it for show. She’s doing it because it feels like mine, like comfort, like a promise.

“I can sleep on the couch,” I offer, voice lower now.

She walks straight into me, presses a kiss to my sternum. “Don’t you dare.”

13

SADIE

Zeke pulls me into his arms, wrapping them around me like a promise. There’s no rush. Just warmth. Just a steady, deliberate closeness standing next to him. His body fits against mine like it’s always belonged there—strong and sure, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. I press closer, molding myself into him, letting the heat of his skin settle the last of my nerves. I exhale slowly, content and grounded.

His hand trails down my side, fingers dragging over the cotton of his shirt still on my body. There’s something soothing in the way he touches me—like he’s confirming I’m real, here, his. When he reaches my hip, he lingers, thumb brushing soft, slow circles. I shiver—not from the cold. It’s the kind of shiver that comes from being wanted and known and seen all at once.

My hand finds his, sliding my fingers between his. The way he squeezes back makes something bloom deep in my chest. I lean in, pressing my lips to the curve of his neck—a soft kiss, quiet, like thank you, like I’m here, too. The silence between us isn’t empty. It’s full. It hums.

Then he turns his head, and our mouths meet. It starts soft—barely a breath—but deepens quickly. His kiss is slow and thorough, like he’s tasting something rare. Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. I sigh into it, my fingers drifting under his shirt, skimming the hard lines of his stomach over the small ridges of old scars. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop me. He lets me touch him like I belong there. Like he wants me to.

---