Page 34 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

Wasting no time, I drive a knee into his gut with brutal, unyielding force, folding him over with a guttural wheeze of agony. A forceful shoulder check sends him sprawling, his body crashing face-first into the snowdrift with a violent impact. Before he can reclaim his senses, I’m on him, my knee grinding into his spine, and with ruthless efficiency, the cable ties snap around his wrists, locking him inescapably in place.

He thrashes once, a futile, instinctive effort, then goes still, his breath heaving clouds of steam into the frigid night air. The wind howls ferociously around us, a haunting, enraged symphony of nature's wrath, but it’s nothing compared to the hurricane of adrenaline still roaring in my veins, a relentless, deafening storm that refuses to be silenced.

Bryn’s voice in my ear: “Big Pete exiting Tunnel Two—east side.”

“Copy.” I drag Reynolds to a forklift strut and lash him there.

Pete stumbles into view—camo parka, hauling a duffel. He spots me, grabs for a weapon—then drops like a tree. Not from my shot. Nate stands behind him, tranquilizer rifle lowered.

I cuff him beside his boss. Rotor wash kicks snow in spirals as federal marshals rappel from the hovering bird. They take charge of Pete and the other prisoners as Zeke’s crew march them from the tunnel.

Bryn and Wren arrive on the snowmobile, skidding to a halt; Bryn’s grin is ice-bright.

Zeke cuffs Reynolds, reads him the charges. He sneers at me, lip split. “Could’ve joined me, Knox.”

“Rather eat glass.”

They haul him into the bird. The chopper lifts. Bryn steps beside me. We watch till the lights fade.

Minimal casualties. Talon Mountain is quiet again.

We stumble into the cabin just after midnight, our bodies weary and grime-covered, reeking of sweat mingled with the heady scent of triumph.

The fire crackles energetically, its warm glow casting flickering shadows on the walls; an enormous copper tub sits invitingly in front of the hearth, steaming with water that is scalding hot, the steam curling into the air like wisps of a ghost. Bryn's breath catches in her throat, a mix of surprise and relief washing over her.

"Looks inviting," she murmurs. “But how did it get here?”

"My guess? Wren. Now, strip," I order, voice raw as gravel. "You're freezing."

Boots, pants, parka hit the floor. I divest her of thermals, careful around the ankle brace. She stands naked in firelight, mud streaking her thighs, hair wild. My pulse trips. I peel off my own layers, muscles protesting every motion, and step into the tub, water lapping my ribs. With a grunt, I lift her and slowly lower her between my spread thighs. She gasps as the hot water envelops her body.

I wash her methodically, but nothing about it feels clinical. The washcloth trails over her shoulders, slick with soap, gliding down the smooth slope of her spine before curling around to follow the curve of her ribs. Her skin rises with goosebumps, heat blooming beneath my fingertips as steam rises around us in lazy, curling tendrils. I drag the cloth down her legs, kneeling to run it across her thighs and over her scraped knees.

Mud and grit dissolve into the water, turning it cloudy, but I don’t stop. Her breath hitches as I reach the sensitive backs of her calves, and her fingers spread across my chest—firm, seeking, the scrape of her nails catching the shallow cut on my bicep. The sting barely registers over the sear of her touch. Every brush of skin, every slick pass of the cloth, is deliberate. She moves beneath the water, cleansing skin and memory, while I claim her all over again—every inch, every breath, steeped in heat, wood smoke, and want.

"You're bleeding."

"Not important." I capture her wrist and tenderly kiss the pulse there.

She bites her lip, eyes darkening. "Caleb…"

I rise with her cradled against me, her slick body molding to mine, water cascading from us in hot rivulets. She clings to my shoulders, shivering from cold and something deeper, her breath damp against my throat. I cross to the hearth, musclestightening under her weight and need, and lower her onto the thick fur spread before the fire. The flames kiss her skin with light and shadow, every curve gleaming like a sculpture.

I reach for a towel and begin drying her slowly, reverently—each stroke an invocation. Over her collarbone. Down the dip of her waist. Between her thighs. Her breath deepens, her legs part slightly, inviting more. I take my time, letting the rough nap of the towel catch the moisture, then my hand replaces it—bare skin on skin. I’m tending to her—pulling us both back to solid ground. This isn’t about rush or frenzy—it’s the calm between storms, the ritual after fire. She looks up at me, eyes heavy with heat and trust, and I know: everything that matters is right here in front of me.

"Shh." I whisper against her skin. She wobbles as the firelight paints her skin molten gold. I towel her off—slow, possessive strokes—until she's trembling.

Bryn's knees hit the floor, her eyes locked onto my fully erect member, a predatory glint in her gaze. As she inches closer, her hand tenderly reaches out, fingers sliding along the inside of my thigh until they find their target. She wraps her fingers around the base, and I can feel the warmth radiating from her palm.

Her pink lips part, revealing her soft tongue that flicks out to tease the sensitive tip. My body shudders with anticipation. Bryn's mouth opens further, and she takes me in slowly, inch by inch. As her head descends upon me, I can see my pulsing length disappearing between those luscious lips.

The sensation of her warm, wet mouth enveloping me sends electricity coursing through my veins. With each bob of her head, I'm drawn deeper into her throat while her tongue works miracles alongside her agile cheeks. Unable to resist, my hand instinctively reaches for her hair, gripping firmly without causing discomfort.

Bryn's blue eyes look up at me from beneath long lashes even as she devotes herself to pleasuring me. The sight of it only amplifies the sensations that threaten to overwhelm me. My jaw clenches tight with each flick and swirl of her talented tongue.

I can feel the mounting pressure deep within, signaling that our erotic dance is nearing its crescendo. Sensing this, Bryn increases her pace and intensity, determined to coax every last ripple of pleasure from our intimate encounter. Our connection grows more intense as we share this raw moment in time until stars begin to gather at the periphery of my vision, heralding an exquisite release that looms just beyond reach.

"Enough," I growl, hauling her up. She moans her disappointment—a rasp of need—then gasps when I lay her on the bed, ankle cushioned by pillows. I take a moment to admire her spread before me—every curve, every inch of glistening skin begging to be touched.

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