Page 22 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

Both turn to me like I’m a misdelivered package—something to be rerouted, not considered. The irritation scrapes low and hot under my ribs, but I keep it buried and pivot toward Caleb instead. His expression gives nothing away, cold and unreadable as glacier stone.

“I’d prefer she stays here,” he says, calm but final. No argument follows. Nate lifts an eyebrow, Wren shrugs, and the corners of Zeke's mouth seem to be tugged up. I guess that’s that.

The cabin exhales silence after they all leave. Caleb stacks fresh wood by the stove, snow melting in his hair and beard. I busy myself at the propane range—only because pacing holes into the floor feels less productive. Venison stew bubbles, the aroma thick with garlic and juniper. Anything to drown the metallic smell of burlap death that Caleb has removed from the cabin.

He steps in from the cold, boots thudding softly against the wood floor, snow steaming off his jacket, beard and hair. The shotgun slung over his shoulder looks like an extension of him—lethal and steady. "Perimeter’s clean," he says, voice like gravel and midnight. "I rigged trip-wires with flares—nothing gets close without lighting up the damn forest."

I ladle stew into two enamel bowls, the rich scent of juniper and garlic rising with a hiss as the hot liquid meets the cold metal. The aroma cuts through the remnants of tension like a balm, earthy and grounding in a way I didn’t realize I needed. I pass one bowl to Caleb, then curl my fingers around mine, grateful for the burn against my palms.

“Dinner’s contraband and poacher free,” I murmur, trying to anchor us both in something human, something normal.

“Good.” He sinks onto the bench opposite me.

Steam wreathes his face, curling through the cabin air like breath made visible. Shadows flicker across cheekbones sharp enough to cut, stark against the firelight. I hand him a spoon, and our fingers brush. The jolt is immediate—heat skating under my skin, tangled with leftover terror, unresolved hunger, and something darker I’m afraid to name.

I clear my throat. “I’m not sitting out tomorrow.”

“Your ankle is still injured.” He stirs the stew exactly once, as if testing viscosity instead of flavor.

“I can ride a snowmobile and work a telemetry tablet.”

“No.” The single syllable drops like a boulder.

I sit straighter. “You need me. My data, my insight?—”

“I need you alive.” His voice is low, dangerous.

I breathe through the flare of anger. “Keeping me caged won’t fix anything.”

“Alive is not caged.”

“Alive is useless if I can’t help.”

He sets the spoon down—quiet, deliberate. “Rules, Bryn. Hard boundaries. You follow them, you stay by my side.”

I meet his gaze head-on. “And if I don’t?”

Steel flickers in glacier blue. He leans forward, voice rough velvet wrapped around steel. “Then I strap you to the damn sled and tie you to me until this is over.”

A shiver—not entirely fear—ripples down my spine. I inhale steadily. “Fine. I'll agree to your boundaries. In return, you tell me why a man who can dismantle poachers in a blizzard still looks like he’s bleeding on the inside.”

Silence stretches, thick as storm clouds. His jaw works once, twice. Then he exhales, slow and rough, like he's releasingshrapnel he’s carried too long—each breath a wound that never fully healed.

"I could use the old 'if I tell you, I'll have to kill you' excuse."

"But you won't," I say with a great deal more confidence than I should feel.

“Mosul, five years ago. Intel op went sideways. I trusted the wrong teammate—a guy named Reynolds. He sold our coordinates for cash. Two of my brothers died. The military court-martialed me for failure of command, then dressed it up to look pretty in an honorable discharge.”

I swallow hard, the weight of his confession pressing against my sternum. “You blamed yourself.”

“I still do.” He rubs the heel of his hand over his chest, like old wounds itch beneath scar tissue. “Solitude was simpler. Until you crashed my mountain.”

The corner of my mouth curves. “You’re welcome.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his lips—blink and it’s gone. “My rules: you ride with me or Wren, never alone. You keep comms active, answer on first ping. You carry bear spray, trauma kit, and pistol loaded safe. You obey instantly if I call a retreat.”

I nod. “My rule: knock before you strip away my autonomy. And trust that I’m stronger than something breakable you need to put away.”

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