Page 11 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

She vanishes in a blur of motion, swallowed by the white, her scream ripping through the trees—sharp, electric, impossible to ignore. Snow explodes into the air as her body hits a jagged outcrop of ice-crusted rock with a sickening crack that echoes down the slope. The sound alone makes my stomach lurch and my blood freeze, a visceral jolt of fear that steals the breath from my lungs.

I skid the last few feet, knees buckling as I drop beside her, heart battering my ribs in a savage rhythm of fear. My breath saws in and out, sharp and uneven, the cold forgotten beneath the heat of panic. My hands tremble as I reach for her, every instinct screaming to fix this, todo something, while my mind spirals—images of broken bones, fractured spine, the hollow silence of something worse—snapping like fire through the dark. I can't lose her. Not here. Not like this.

“Bryn!”

She groans, eyes squeezed shut. “Ow.”

“Talk to me.” My hands hover over her coat, unsure where she’s hurt. “Where?”

“My ankle.” Her voice is tight, pain edging the syllables. “Rolled it, I think. God, that fucking hurts.”

I run my hands along her limbs, checking fast but thorough—no blood, no jagged bone, no trauma that can’t wait. But when I reach her boot, she jerks and lets out a sharp hiss that cuts through the wind like a warning shot. That ankle's bad. Probably swollen already. Definitely sprained.

I look up the slope—steep, narrow, and slick with snow-covered shale. Even if she could stand, she'd never make it up. And this stretch? Too exposed to stay put. If whoever wastracking us is still nearby, we're sitting ducks. And I’m not risking her life on a gamble like that.

“I’m carrying you.”

She blinks. “No, you’re not.”

I don’t give her the luxury of argument. One look at her twisted grimace and pale face tells me hesitation isn't an option. I crouch beside her, unlatching the bindings on her snowshoes.

Weakly, she protests, “Those are rented. If I don’t bring them back, it’s going to cost a fortune.”

“Send me the bill,” I mutter, flinging them aside into the snow.

Then I step closer, plant my feet firmly in the snow, and slide one arm beneath her knees, the other steady behind her back, careful not to jostle her ankle. Her breath catches as I lift her off the ground in one smooth motion, the weight of her slight but potent—solid heat against my chest, every inch of her pressed to me.

“Caleb—”

“Shut up and hold on.”

She tenses in my arms, stiff with pride and pain, but she doesn’t fight me.

I pick up my pack and begin the slow descent off the ridge, snow compacting beneath every step, each one deliberate. My cabin isn’t far—less than a mile if I cut through the gulley and follow the old trapper trail. It’s no gentle hike, but it's better than making camp with the shadows crawling in around us.

She’s quiet for the first hundred yards, arms folded tight against her chest, jaw set like she’s still chewing on the fact that I'm carrying her down the mountain. Her pride’s bruised, but she’s not complaining. Not yet.

Then, softly, “You’re warm.”

“Try not to get used to it.”

Her snort is half laugh, half grunt. “Not planning to.”

But her head settles against my shoulder, a soft exhale warming the skin just below my ear. I feel it like a brand, a heat that sinks straight to my core, even as I force myself to stay focused on the trail ahead. I keep my jaw tight, my eyes on the trail.

One misstep and I’m sending us both over the edge. Still, I can’t ignore the way she feels in my arms—like she belongs there. Her presence against my chest feels not like a burden, but a claim. Her warmth seeps into me, steady and grounding, even as every step over the icy trail reminds me of how close we are to disaster. Carrying her feels less like an obligation and more like instinct—like something deep and primal that has nothing to do with logic, and everything to do with the way she makes the silence feel less empty.

I force the thought down, bury it beneath layers of cold. There’s no space for fantasy up here—only survival, only control.

By the time we reach the cabin, my thighs burn from the effort and her weight’s settled into my bones like permanence. I get us inside and kick the door closed, carrying her straight to the bedroom and place her on the bed.

“Sit. Don’t move.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” she mutters, wincing.

I strip off my gloves and grab a bottle of water and the emergency kit from the shelf—chemical cold wraps, elastic bandages, and painkillers rattling inside the metal tin. I hand her some anti-inflammatories and a bottle of water. “Take this.”

I kneel, bracing her leg across my thigh for stability, and start unlacing her boot. Her breath hitches at the movement, jaw clenched tight as I work carefully, doing my best to avoid aggravating the swelling. Her sock’s damp with melted snow, and tension radiates off her like heat from a furnace.

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