Page 32 of Protector of Talon Mountain

“Still working?” I ask, voice low as I shut the door behind me.

She glances back, smile small but real. “Had to prep tomorrow’s inventory. Besides, I like the quiet.”

I step into the kitchen without asking. I’m past the point of needing permission. She hands me a rag automatically, and I fall into rhythm with her, wiping down surfaces already spotless.

“You check the locks?” I ask.

“Twice.”

“Good.”

She leans into the fridge, grabs a carton of eggs, and the movement pulls her shirt tighter across her back. I shouldn’t be looking. Doesn’t stop me.

When she turns, her eyes find mine, like she already knows where my head went. There’s a pull between us now, stronger than ever. It hums under the surface of everything we’re not saying.

I reach for a jar near the sink, and she steps in at the same time. We collide—not hard, but enough that my chest brushes her shoulder. Her breath catches, and my hand settles on the counter beside hers. Not touching. Not yet.

Her eyes flick to mine, wide and sharp. “Sorry.”

“I’m not,” I say, low. Honest.

She exhales, shaky but not afraid. I see it in her. The weight she’s carrying. The fight she’s still holding onto with both hands.

I step back before I forget myself, grab my jacket from the hook near the door. “I’m walking you home.”

She hesitates. “Zeke, you don’t have to?—”

“I do,” I cut in. “Because someone was there, Sadie. Someone who doesn’t belong. I’m not leaving you alone in the dark to pretend that’s okay.”

Her shoulders drop. Not in defeat. In trust. She grabs her coat, flips off the lights, and we walk into the night.

By the time we reach her cottage, the sky’s clear. The moon cuts silver across the snow, and the entire world feels like it’s waiting for something. She steps up onto the porch, keys in hand. I hover behind her, too close to be polite, too far to be a mistake.

She turns slowly. Her breath comes in clouds. So does mine.

There’s a smudge of flour on her chest, just beneath her collarbone. Without thinking, I reach up and brush it away with my thumb. She freezes beneath my touch. I swear her heart’s beating just as hard as mine.

“Thanks,” she says, voice a whisper.

I lower my mouth to hers and kiss her. No hesitation, no warning—just the heat of my hand sliding to the side of her neck, and then my mouth covering hers like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. She exhales against me, soft and startled, but she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers curl in my jacket, and when I deepen the kiss, she leans in like she’s been waiting for this—for me.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s weeks of tension, of unsaid words and guarded glances, burning down between us in one long, hungry kiss. I taste flour and coffee and the truth she won’t say out loud yet. Her lips part, and I take more, anchoring her against me with one hand at her waist, the other still cupped at her neck.

Then I pull back. Not because I want to—but because if I don’t, I won’t stop.

Her eyes are wide, lips parted, chest rising fast. She looks stunned. Wrecked. So do I.

But I step back, slow and controlled, every muscle tight. My voice is low when I speak. “Top and bottom lock.”

She nods, barely moving. Still watching me like I’ve unraveled something inside her.

I wait until the deadbolt clicks. Until I know she’s safe inside. Then I turn into the darkness, jaw tight, hand still tingling from where I touched her. My hands still remember the shape of her. My mouth still burns from the way she tasted. Whoever’s circling her, whoever thinks they can move pieces behind closed doors—they just made a fatal miscalculation.

And my promise still stands: whoever’s coming for her… they’re already too late.

Because I’m not circling. I’m closing in.

8

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