Page 52 of Protector of Talon Mountain

Zeke’s body tenses, but even so, he says nothing.

“He backhanded me so that my lip was split, and I had a bruise on my cheek for more than a week. He said I needed to be reminded of who I belonged to… that I’d started to forget. When I tried to pull away, he shoved me to the ground and called me weak. Said no one else would want me, anyway.”

Zeke’s breath hisses between his teeth, sharp and silent. His jaw flexes once, hard. His hand moves to mine—big and warm and shaking, just barely. He brings it to his lips. He leans in and softly kisses my cheek where the ghost of a bruise once lived and then gently kisses my lips. His mouth is reverent. Devastating.

I start to cry. Silent tears this time. Not from pain, but from the softness. From the weight of being seen. Of being held together so gently after being torn apart for so long.

Zeke shifts, kneeling in front of me on the bed, one leg braced on either side of mine. He cradles my face in both hands like I’m something precious—like I’m breakable, even though we both know I’m not.

“You survived,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing to mine. “And I swear to God, Sadie, I’ll make sure you thrive.”

My throat closes up. My hands curl into his shoulders, holding on.

“I don’t know how to do that,” I whisper.

“Yes, you do,” he says, brushing his lips over my temple. “You’ve been doing it every day since you got here. Getting up. Feeding people. Building something new. You already know how, baby. You just didn’t have anyone watching your back while you did it.”

His hand finds the small of my back and pulls me into his lap. I fold into him without hesitation, chest to chest, skin to skin, like I belong there. Maybe I do.

We don’t talk after that. There’s nothing left to say. I feel the shift between us as clearly as the sunrise beginning to filter through the curtains.

He lays us back down, pulling the sheet up around us, one hand fisted gently in my hair, the other anchored against my lower back. I nestle into his chest, my leg sliding between his. His breath slows. So does mine.

For the first time since I left Brent, I don’t feel like I’m running anymore.

I fall asleep again like that, curled against him, the tension gone. Not because everything’s fixed. But because I believe him now—when he says I’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay. Tomorrow will come. And with it, whatever storm is waiting. But for now, in this room, in this bed, in these arms? I am complete and strong and home.

14

ZEKE

I’m already half-dressed when the encrypted ping comes through Caleb’s secure phone. It’s not a phone call or text—just a low-frequency code, the kind only a former SEAL would know how to send or read. The moment I see it, I feel the switch flip in my blood.

Sadie’s still asleep, curled tight into my side, one leg slung over mine like she’s keeping me anchored. At some point, she must have slipped my shirt back on. Her breathing is slow, steady, mouth slightly parted. Peaceful. I watch her for one more second, burning the image into my mind before I slip from the bed and grab my stuff from the floor.

I’m tugging my boots on when she stirs.

Her voice is thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Early.” I keep my voice low, even. “Go back to sleep.”

She lifts her head, blinking. “You’re lying.”

I glance over my shoulder. Her eyes are clearer now. Watching me. Always watching.

“Something’s up,” she says.

I nod once, grabbing my comm from the top drawer and clipping it to my belt. “Caleb picked up something. Might be a signal from one of the ATVs we tracked near the burn site.”

She pushes the covers back, sitting up. My shirt is still on her, one shoulder bare, hair tangled and perfect. Her brow pulls in just enough to tell me she’s trying not to worry. It’s instinct. She’s always trying to stay out of the way, trying not to need too much.

“You going alone?”

“Not a chance.” I step back toward her, lean down, and cup her face in my hand. “Caleb’s already out. He’s triangulating the signal. I’m going to meet him on the southern trail.”

Her lips part like she’s about to ask the question I already have an answer to.

“You’re not coming,” I say. “But you’re not staying here either.”

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