Page 27 of Protector of Talon Mountain

I swallow hard. “Zeke... what if it’s more than a threat? What if they’re planning something worse?”

His eyes darken as he parks behind the café and helps me out. “Then they will be disappointed,” he said.

He steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his body as we head back into the café. Once inside, I look up at him, and it’s like the air shifts again. He doesn’t touch me—but I feel it, anyway.

“I’m done waiting for you to ask me for help,” he says, voice lower now.

I nod slowly. My pulse is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. “Okay.”

He lifts a hand, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is gentle, but there’s nothing soft in his expression as he nods and says, “You’re mine to protect now.”

I don’t flinch. I don’t argue. Because something in the way he says it makes me believe I actually am.

* * *

The bell over the café door jingles, sharp and clear, just as I’m sliding a tray of cinnamon rolls onto the counter. I don’t need to look up to know it’s him. Zeke’s footsteps don’t sound like anyone else’s. Steady. Measured. Like he walks with gravity instead of pace.

I feel him before I see him—heat behind my spine, attention like a pressure point. I straighten too fast, wiping my hands on a towel that’s already flour-streaked. When I finally lift my gaze, he’s already watching me. His eyes skim over my face like he’s scanning for damage.

“You came back for your cinnamon roll,” I say, keeping my voice light as I move to refill the coffee carafes and pour him a mug. “I was worried the town might devolve into chaos if you broke with your routine.”

Zeke crosses the room without answering. He doesn’t smile. He rarely does. But the corner of his mouth twitches like I’ve earned half a point. He leans against the back counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, gaze sharp.

The silence that settles between us isn’t passive—it’s strategic. He’s cataloging me. Waiting for the next crack. And somehow, that unnerves me more than if he were demanding answers.

The front door chimes again. A small cluster of regulars drifts in—Walter, Ada, Jenny’s boyfriend who always orders a muffin but never finishes it. I shift into gear, greeting each one, wiping counters, moving trays. Zeke stays near the back, watching but not hovering, like he’s there to take stock of who looks at me too long or talks too quietly.

I hate that it makes me feel... steady.

By ten, the café’s full, and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve brushed past Zeke behind the counter. He’s been pulling mugs, wiping tables, and even helped Jenny carry two loaded trays when the high school kids came in for a quick breakfast before school. He doesn’t act like he owns the place—but he makes it clear that if anything went wrong in here, it’d go through him first.

He’s all precision and economy of movement, and I’m too aware of him. The heat of his arm when I reach past him for a pan. The shift of muscle under his shirt when he lifts a crate of bottled drinks without asking. The way his eyes follow mine like he can feel every thought before I speak it.

I reach for a canister of flour on the shelf above the prep station and stretch up, standing on tiptoe to reach it. My balance wobbles just a second before I feel his hand on my lower back. Big, warm, steady.

“I’ve got it,” he says, voice close to my ear.

I freeze, caught between the safety of his hand and the way my pulse spikes. I should move. He reaches around me, brushes against my shoulder, and grabs the canister like it’s nothing. His arm brushes mine, firm and unhurried, and suddenly the entire kitchen feels about ten degrees warmer. I can smell him—clean soap, cedar, the faintest trace of coffee. He sets the flour down and doesn’t move away immediately.

“You always stock things where you can’t reach them?” he asks, eyes on mine.

“One of the occupational hazards of not being related to the Amazonian warriors,” I say, trying for casual. My voice comes out too soft.

He doesn’t tease. Just nods once. “Then maybe you need someone taller around more often.”

I can’t think of a single response that won’t sound like a confession, so I do what I’m best at—I pivot. I grab a whisk, move to the mixing bowl, start in on the scone batter like it demands every cell of my attention.

But Zeke stays close. Not touching, not crowding—but present. Solid. Like a wall I didn’t know I’d leaned on until I stopped, pretending I didn’t need one.

Jenny flies in, grabbing another tray of baked goods and heading back to the front, tossing a wink in my direction as she catches Zeke watching me again.

“Need me to step out so you two can work that tension out over a bag of flour?” she mutters, low enough for only me to hear.

“Jenny,” I hiss, cheeks flaming.

“I’m just saying,” she says with a mischievous grin before disappearing through the café doors again.

I glance at Zeke. He didn’t hear her—probably. But the way his eyes flick back to mine a second later tells me he picked upsomething. I stir faster, heart pounding.

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