Page 12 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

I don't let myself look up. If I do, I’ll lose the thread—of control, of distance. Her pain is raw, immediate, and my handsare the only steady thing between us. One glance, and I won’t be able to hold back.

She watches me, eyes shadowed. “You do this a lot?”

“Take care of stubborn women who don’t listen? Only recently.”

“Lucky me.”

I ease the boot off slowly, the fabric catching against her swollen ankle despite my care. The moment it clears her heel, she hisses through clenched teeth, her fingers curling into the blanket beneath her. "Shit," she breathes, the word sharp with pain. Her eyes squeeze shut, and I can see the muscle in her jaw jump. The sight guts me—far deeper than I’ll ever admit. That kind of pain—controlled, endured—is its own kind of bravery. I set the boot aside, the worn leather darkened with slush, and reach for the ice pack.

“Yeah,” I say, voice low, “real lucky.”

I wrap her ankle, slow and careful, my fingers working with practiced precision even as my mind stutters under the heat of her gaze. She doesn’t flinch, just watches me with those keen eyes that strip me down to the parts I never show. Her breath’s still coming fast, uneven, as if painkillers she took haven’t kicked in, and something else churns beneath the surface.

I finish and lean back on my heels, but I don’t move away. Her knee brushes my thigh—a whisper of contact that scorches hotter than a flame. My pulse leaps, hammering through me in a warning cadence, primal and urgent. I should step back, give us both some breathing room. I don’t. I can’t.

“You should rest,” I say, not trusting my voice.

“I’m not tired.”

Her voice softens, some of the steel slipping away. We’re close. Too close. Her gaze dips to my mouth—brief, sharp—then returns to my eyes with a flicker of something unspoken. Heatcoils in the space between us, crackling just beneath the surface like a struck match daring to burn.

I clench my jaw. “Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

My voice scrapes out, rougher than I mean it to be, strained and threaded with the restraint I’m barely managing to hold. Every instinct claws at me to close the space between us, to reach for her, to claim—but I clamp my jaw shut, like brute force alone can cage the storm tearing through me.

Her eyebrows lift. “Who says I’m not?”

The air between us crackles—thick, electric, like it’s holding its breath. One more beat and I’ll close the space, drag her against me, and let everything I’ve been holding back surge to the surface.

But I don’t. Not yet. I turn from her, each step away grinding through me like a battle I’m barely winning, every muscle in my body screaming to turn back—to touch, to claim, to surrender to what I can’t afford to want. The floor creaks beneath my boots as I cross to the stove, the fire low and hungry. I toss in another log, the bark catching with a hiss and a sharp snap of ember, and force my attention on the flicker of flame rather than the woman behind me—the one curled on my bed, her hair spilling wild and golden around her shoulders, like temptation wrapped in vulnerability.

She's not the threat clawing at the edges of this mountain, but she's the one who could crack me open from the inside and leave nothing behind but ash.

“You’re staying here until that ankle heals.”

She scoffs. “Like hell I am.”

I glance over my shoulder and smile. She talks a big game, but sleep has overtaken her. I remove her damp clothes, put her in one of my long-sleeved thermals and tuck her in.

The flames crackle. Outside, the wind howls low and distant, threading through the trees like a predator circling just out of reach—restless, alert, and prowling the boundary of dark woods, biding its time until nightfall.

The trail ends here—for her, at least. While she rests, I’ll keep watch. No one gets near her. Not tonight. Not while I’m breathing.

5

BRYN

Iwake to the crackle of fire and the sharp, lingering ache in my ankle. For a second, I don’t move. I just breathe. The room smells like cedar, smoke, and something wild I can’t name. Caleb.

The cabin is warm, unnaturally so, given the howling wind battering the windows and log-sided walls from outside. I glance around. Through the windows, I see the snow as it falls sideways, gusting hard enough to blur the trees into ghostly smudges. A storm. Of course.

I push myself upright with a groan, the pain in my ankle flaring like a struck match. My breath catches, sharp and involuntary. I barely remember Caleb wrapping it before sleep overtook me—tight, neat, not a wrinkle out of place. The bandage hugs the joint with practiced precision. Efficient. Just like everything else about him—unapologetically capable and maddeningly silent about it.

Someone draped the covers over me, and when I look down, all I have on are my panties and an oversized thermal. Nothing else. The warmth of the bedding and his thermal still seem to hold a residual heat from his body. I press my hand to the comfortable mattress, then shake it off. Don’t read into it.

I scan the room from where I’m lying in the iron bed—clearly the centerpiece of the bedroom. The space is separate but not sealed off, the wide doorway offering a clear view into the main cabin. Heavy beams arch across the ceiling, and a stone hearth anchors the central room like a sentinel. Weapons hang in neat rows on one wall—rifles, knives, even a bow, each item clean, sharp, and clearly well-used.

The room has a rugged, masculine elegance—thick rugs soften the floor, and the glow of the fire spills across antique furniture: a weathered chest doubling as a coffee table, a writing desk tucked in one corner, and the sheen of age-worn wood visible in every surface. The maps above the workbench draw my eye—corners curling with age, topographical lines and handwritten notes etched in obsessively tidy script. Routes. Plans. Secrets.

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