Page 35 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

I glide my fingers down her body until they slip between her thighs, finding the slick heat that craves my attention. She moans and arches her back as I tease and stroke her most intimate flesh. Then, with a breathless sigh, I position myself at her entrance and press inside her in one slick thrust. Bryn's body arches off the bed, a cry escaping her lips as she adjusts to the fullness within her.

I begin to move, our bodies locked in a raw, primal rhythm that blurs the line between lust and love. Her thighs tighten around my hips, heels digging into my lower back, urging me deeper with every powerful thrust. The air between us pulses with heat, with the slick slide of skin on skin, the low moan that slips from her throat when I grind against the sweet spot inside her.

Her gaze locks with mine—stormy, daring, so damn alive—and it dares me to hold anything back. I don’t. I drive intoher with aching hunger, our connection a wildfire, consuming everything but this moment.

We climb hard and fast together—battle hunger transformed into raw devotion—our bodies moving in perfect synchronicity until we both shatter into ecstasy, trembling and gasping for air. I collapse beside her and pull her into my chest, hearts drumming in frantic unison.

"I love you," she whispers, voice wrecked.

My throat tightens. "I know." I kiss her temple. "I love you too."

Nate’s voice crackles over the radio: “Reynolds was small fish. Meet at Zeke’s at 0600. Round two’s coming.”

Bryn stiffens beside me, her eyes blazing with a mix of adrenaline and fury. “Round two?” Her voice is sharp, disbelieving.

I nod slowly, my expression turning grim. “Round two.” I glance out the cabin window where the darkness presses thick against the glass. “There’s always a round two.”

15

BRYN

The radio is still hissing when dawn presses thin blue light through the cabin windows, the cold air curling in through the seams like a whispered warning. Caleb’s arm lies heavy across my ribs—possessive even in sleep. I ease out from under him. The wood of the floor creaks softly beneath my foot as I shift, the chill nipping at my toes through the worn boards. Hearing the sound, his eyes snap open. Predator reflex. Lover reflex. Both.

“0600,” he rasps, voice gravel-deep. “Sheriff’s office in forty.”

I stretch, wincing when stiff muscles protest last night’s… activities. The bath, the fire, the things he did with that towel—every inch of me knows exactly how completely I’m his. And I’m absurdly okay with that.

Caleb pulls on fatigues, straps a sidearm to his thigh, and laces my boots before dealing with his own. Dominant, infuriating, sweet. I kiss the top of his head while he ties the last knot. “I can lace my own, caveman.”

“One, you like it,” he murmurs, standing. “Two, you limp less when I tighten them.”

I hate how correct he is.

The sheriff’s office smells like over-brewed coffee and wet wool. Zeke lounges against a filing cabinet, Sadie perched on his desk passing out hand-thrown ceramic mugs. Wren sits cross-legged on one of the other desks, ledgers and seized tablets spread around her like a forensic campfire, her eyebrows drawn tight in focused concentration.

There's a determined glint in her eye, the kind that says she’s closing in on something big, and the curve of her mouth hints at a satisfaction she’s not ready to voice just yet. Nate hovers behind her chair—broad shoulders, protective as a grizzly—glancing down every few seconds with an expression halfway between pride and wanting to eat her alive.

Wren flips another ledger, braid swishing and almost hitting Nate in the face.

“I've found four shell corporations. It's the same handwriting in every log: weight of contraband, payout columns, a weird cipher.” She stabs a line of neat, aggressive digits. “Numbers match accounts Reynolds used to charter the cargo chopper.”

Nate grins, claps a mammoth hand on her shoulder. “You just secured my next promotion.”

Wren arches an eyebrow. “And your next wilderness-survival lesson. You almost broke your neck yesterday.”

He leans closer, unashamed. “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. And it’s a price I’m happy to pay. Next session, I’ll bring marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers.”

Their flirtation crackles hotter than Zeke’s woodstove. Caleb clears his throat—low, commanding—and the room falls into orbit around him. It's fun to watch him watch his little sister andNate. Part of the time he seems to enjoy egging one or both of them on, then he growls at Nate if he gets too close.

Caleb rolls out a fresh map Nate brought from Anchorage: an updated grid of Talon Mountain and the surrounding area, dotted with new search sectors.

“The smuggling/poaching ring is done,” Caleb says, tapping the map. “The feds will mop up the rest of this group. That should free up some of the search and rescue teams.” He meets my gaze, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “After the Spring thaw, we can expand the grid for Chris. Thirty-kilometer radius west of Trail Seven.”

Gratitude slams into me like an avalanche, sharp and overwhelming. For a year, every knock ended in rejection, every lead a dead end. But now, the most lethal man on this mountain—my man—is making my brother his first mission. The force of it steals my breath. I nod once—military crisp—because if I try to say anything, the tears will come fast and loud and unstoppable.

Zeke passes the ledger stack to Caleb, the worn covers creaking slightly in protest. “Feds want these by courier—evidence chain and all—but Wren already digitized everything and uploaded it to the secure server. Paper trail’s just for show now.”

Sadie slides a fresh mug into my hands. “Drink,” she orders. “You’re white as the snow you hate.”

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