Page 10 of Protector of Talon Mountain

Zeke didn’t threaten. He didn’t hover or leer or try to shrink me with silence.

He just was. A presence. Solid. Quiet. Watchful. Like he’d taken in everything about me in thirty seconds flat and hadn’t found a single reason to look away.

I don’t know what that means. But I know what it doesn’t feel like. It doesn’t feel like Brent, and that alone is enough to shake me.

At seven-fifteen, the door opens again and for a split second—just one—my pulse spikes like it might be him. It isn’t either of the men who have been occupying my thoughts since last night. Not Brent and not Zeke. It’s just the delivery guy with groceries. He takes them into the back and heads out, leaving the room feeling cold again.

It’s a dangerous thought, the way I catch myself wanting Zeke to walk back in. The way I feel safer when he’s nearby—even though I barely know him. That should scare me more than the note did, yet oddly, it doesn’t.

* * *

It’s nearly dark when I see him again.

The sun’s dropped behind the ridge, casting Glacier Hollow in that steel-blue shadow it wears so well. I’m wiping down the counter—again—because I don’t trust idle hands anymore. Not with everything I’ve learned about what creeps in when you stop moving.

And then he’s just... there.

Zeke MacAllister. Standing inside the café like the bell above the door never made a sound. I glance up at it, almost accusingly. I’m sure it didn’t ring.

He’s still. Hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tight, eyes scanning the space like he’s reading every detail, every object. Not moving. Just watching. Like a stone that decided to breathe.

My pulse stutters. I’m not afraid—but I’m not unaffected, either.

I wipe my hands on a towel and walk over to the register. I could ignore him. Pretend I didn’t see. But we both know that’d be a lie.

Eventually, he steps toward the counter. The room fades out—the hum of the refrigerator, the scrape of a fork somewhere in back—all gone. It’s just him, walking toward me, eyes locked. Not casing the place like last time. Not looking around.

Just looking at me.

“Same?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.

He nods. “Black. No sugar.”

That voice—low, steady, calm—but not the kind of calm that comes from comfort. It’s the kind that someone has earned. Carved out through storms and fire.

I pour the coffee, slide the mug across. Hands steady—until his fingers brush mine. The contact is brief, but it sizzles like a lit fuse.

The other customers filter out. Chairs go up. Lights dim. The quiet settles in like it always does when I’m closing up. Jenny’s already gone. The last pot sputters behind me.

Then he says it. “I’m here about the studio over the café.”

I blink. “How’d you hear about that? It’s not listed.”

“You mentioned it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then it must’ve been the mayor…”

“Did he tell you it’s small? Loud in the mornings? And?—”

“I’ll take it.”

I cross my arms. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I’ve seen enough. It’s close. I’ll be around if anything happens. Your café’s clean, well-kept. I figure the apartment’s the same.”

My pulse skips. “You’d really live upstairs?”

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