Page 24 of Protector of Talon Mountain

“I’m always watching. Especially when it matters.”

She swallows, throat working. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“Somebody made it a thing the second they threatened you.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

She doesn’t answer.

I take a step closer. Not looming. Just enough to make her feel it. The shift in pressure. The choice.

“You said you’ve got people who want you invisible,” I say. “I need to know who they are. Or you’re gonna wake up one day and find they’ve made you disappear entirely.”

Her eyes shine, not from tears, but from the effort it takes to not let them fall.

“You don’t know what you’re walking into, Zeke,” she whispers.

I keep my voice low. Steel wrapped in calm. “I know what I’m not walking away from.”

She looks at me like she’s not sure whether to push me back or pull me in.

Then she says, “You’re dangerous.”

I let that settle, then nod once. “Only to people who forget who I’m protecting.”

We stand at the bottom step of her porch. The wind’s ripping harder now, coming off the bay in gusts that cut through coats and settle straight in your bones. Sadie doesn’t shiver, but I see her hand tighten around the key in her pocket like she’s holding onto more than just metal. She walks up ahead of me, shoulders squared. I follow her, scanning the shadows, the tree line across the street, the shape of the car that hasn’t moved in two days near the bend.

She pauses in front of the door. Pulls the keys out. Fingers hesitate over the lock.

“You always this bossy?” she asks, trying for light, but the weight’s still in her voice. She wants to distract me. Or herself.

“Only when I care if someone ends up dead,” I say. I don’t smile when I say it, because I’m not joking. And she knows that.

Her breath hitches, almost like she wants to respond but doesn’t quite have the words. She turns the key and pushes the door open. Warmth spills out from inside, the faint scent of clove and cinnamon still lingering in the air. Something lived-in and clean. A space that feels like her.

I don’t follow her in. Not yet.

She stops just over the threshold. Glances back. “You’re going to make me check the house, aren’t you?”

“No,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m going to do it.”

I move past her, slow and steady, my eyes tracking everything. No signs of entry. No broken windows. The furniture’s undisturbed, and the curtains are closed like she left them. Still, I walk the perimeter—kitchen, living room, small hallway, bathroom, bedroom. Every door. Every closet. Every window lock. I don’t speak until I’ve finished. Then I come back to the front door, where she’s standing with one arm wrapped around her middle like she’s trying to hold something in.

“Clear,” I say.

She exhales through her nose. Doesn’t say thank you this time. Just watches me, eyes searching mine like she’s trying to figure out what kind of man walks into someone else’s home like this and doesn’t flinch at the intimacy.

I step into her space again. Not touching. Just close enough that she can feel the heat coming off me. My voice drops. “Lock it. Top and bottom.”

Her eyes flick to the locks. She hesitates, then reaches out. Her hand is steady until she gets to the deadbolt. That’s when I see it—the tiniest shake in her fingers. Like her nerves are vibrating just beneath the surface.

I say nothing.

She slides the bolt home with a soft click.

“Good,” I murmur. “Again tomorrow. And every night after.”

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