Page 29 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

“More like eight,” I snort, gripping a roll of elastic wrap, anchoring it above the swelling. “You don’t get to bluff with your body. Not to me.”

She sucks a sharp breath but doesn’t break eye-contact. “And you don’t get to bark orders and expect me to roll over.”

My lips twitch. “Never asked you to roll. Just heel.”

Her bark of laughter slices through the tension. Then my hands smooth the bandage into place, fingers lingering. The second I finish, she captures my wrist. “I’m not made of glass, Caleb. Maybe you should let me prove it.”

I stand, towering over her. “Prove it how?”

Lightning flickers in her blue gaze, like a storm barely held at bay, and for a split second, I see the collar ping—her ankle turning, the leap. The visual snaps into place just before the panic. She digs her good heel into the rug, pushes upright until her chest meets mine. The top of her head brushes my chin, blond hair smelling of snow and smoke. “You’re wound tighter than a trip-wire. So am I. We both looked death in the eye and saw it staring back tonight.” She presses closer, breath grazing my throat. Her voice dips to a low challenge, threaded with heat and daring. “Do something about it.”

A flicker of defiance burns in her eyes—Bryn refusing to back down, even now. That fire... it guts me in the best way, a raw surge through my bloodstream like a jolt of wildfire. It reminds me she's not some fragile thing I have to shield—she's the fight beside me, not the fear behind me.

I don’t need a second invitation. I spin her, back against the log wall, hands fisting in her thermal Henley. The fabric strains and pops as two buttons give under my thumb. Her breath stutters, pupils flaring dark, lips parted on a gasp that’s half shock, half invitation. Her one boot is still on, gear half-stripped—there’s no time to be gentle, no patience for ceremony.

The sharp, bracing scent of pine resin coils through the cabin, tangling with the intoxicating musk rising from her skin—warm, feminine, wild. Firelight crackles and dances across the walls, igniting flickers of gold and bronze in her flushed cheeks. Her body presses against mine, heat searing through every inch where we touch.

I claim her mouth with a hunger I’ve held at bay too long—her kiss is sweet and feral, threaded with adrenaline and fire, a challenge and surrender all at once. She tastes like survival and sin, like the edge of a cliff I’ve already jumped. Alive. Wild. Undeniably mine.

I trap her wrists above her head with one hand, pressing them firmly into the rough-hewn logs, my grip unyielding. My other hand drifts down her side, slow and possessive, charting every bruise and every patch of smooth, fevered skin. Her breath shudders out, chest rising to meet me. When my thumb grazes just beneath the swell of her breast, she writhes—not to escape, but to challenge. "Harder," she grits, the word low, rough, soaked in need and defiance. Her eyes blaze like twin infernos, daring me to claim her completely.

My control snaps—not from fury, but from savage, desperate relief. I hitch her good leg around my hip, anchoring her against me, I drive into her with a raw hunger sharpened by fear and longing, each thrust a carved promise etched in sweat and breath: You’re safe. You’re mine. You came back to me.

As I pound into her, she meets me with fire—nails scoring my shoulders, jaw nipped between her teeth, her hips rising to claim me deeper. The slick heat of her surrounds me, a living brand that sears through every layer of restraint. Her gasp breaks against my mouth, equal parts demand and surrender, and I swallow it whole. The room contracts to sensation: the blistering sting of scraped wood at her back, the low roar of blood in my ear as we slide to the floor.

Outside, the storm rages—wind battering the shutters like fists, shrieking through the eaves like a warning. Inside, the air hums with heat and hunger, a feral rhythm that drowns out thought. We move in a frenzy of limbs and breath—clothes tangled around thighs, her boot scraping the wall, my fingers digging into the rug like claws trying to anchor us to something real. Her skin is scalding satin beneath my hands, slick with sweat and need. I drag my mouth along her throat, tasting salt and snow, the raw musk of adrenaline clinging to her.

She arches into me with a gasp—sharp and urgent, the kind that starts low in the belly and hums through bone. Her musclestighten, body singing around mine, and I lose myself in her. The moment breaks over us like a wave—raw, brutal, obliterating. Her cry is muffled by my mouth as I drink her in, my groan vibrating against her throat. Her legs lock around me, one heel hooked behind my thigh as her body pulses in hot, greedy waves. I stay deep inside her, unmoving, holding her through every tremor that ripples from her into me and back again.

Sweat slicks our skin. Her heartbeat thrums wild beneath my lips as I bury my face in her neck, breathing in the salt of her surrender. I don’t pull away. I can’t. I hold her—chest to chest, heart to heart—while her hands clutch my shoulders, her breath still broken against my throat. She trembles in my arms like the last echo of a storm, the scent of sex and firelight clinging to the air around us.

I murmur something rough and meaningless into her hair, just to hear my own voice, just to anchor us in the now. The storm still rages outside—but inside her arms, the world begins to steady, piece by fragile piece.

Only when her breath steadies—broken gasps softening to small, rhythmic exhalations—do I reach blindly for a blanket and tug it over us, cocooning her against the chill still roiling outside. Her body molds to mine, heat-to-heat, heartbeat-to-heartbeat, and for a moment, the only sound is the soft crackle of firelight and the lingering echo of what we just survived—and claimed.

She presses her cheek to my chest, breath still unsteady. “Tell me why Reynolds wrecks you,” she murmurs. “I need to understand the man I’ve just chained myself to.”

Chains—she has no idea. I inhale once, the pine-smoke air scraping my lungs.

“Reynolds was my responsibility. I brought him into the unit, trusted him with lives that weren’t his to wager. He sold our coordinates before Mosul. We walked straight into an ambush.”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Two men died that day,” I continue, voice rough. “One was my best friend. I buried what was left of him in a body bag we had to sew shut with comms wire.” My throat tightens. “At first, I blamed command. Then the truth came out—Reynolds took cartel money. After that, I didn’t know who to blame more—him, or myself.”

Bryn’s arms tighten. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

“I might as well have.” I cup her jaw, forcing her to see the truth in my eyes—gray, unflinching and storm-laced, daring her to look away. Unblinking. “Tonight confirms he’s alive and still cashing in on blood. I won’t let him vanish again.”

“Then we won’t,” she says, simple as gravity. “We have proof he’s inside the smelter and an outfitter is smuggling bodies for him. We use it.”

“Evidence alone won’t be enough to shut them down.” I sift my fingers through her hair. “We take him alive if possible. He’s leverage. Without him, they regroup. With him in custody, the whole ring collapses.”

Bryn pushes up on her elbows, her ankle braced between us. “He’ll go to ground the moment those tourists are diverted. We have one shot.”

I nod. “First light, Wren plants directional mics. Zeke blocks the highway with a ‘rockslide.’ Nate sets remote charges on the service road. Twenty-four hours from now, Reynolds’ exfil bird lands. We’ll be there—armed, ready, and invisible. No one gets past us this time.”

She studies me, proud fire in her gaze. “You set that countdown, commander. I’ll keep up.”

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