Page 15 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
"Then someone’s pretending to be him."
The storm shrieks against the walls, wind clawing like a thing alive—but inside, silence reigns, thick and unnatural. Color drains from her face, leaving her features carved from ice. Eyes wide, but not wet. Shock first, tears later—if ever. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at the console like it might lunge for her.
The sat-link hums in the silence, thin and keen as a blade. The room holds its breath—like the second before a scream, or the moment a ghost remembers it still has unfinished business.
5
WREN
Nate’s stone cottage may be small, but he runs it with the precision of a forward operating base. Every item arranged for purpose, every space claimed for utility. There’s no clutter, no chaos. A stark, rugged order—safe and suffocating all at once. Like stepping into a wolf’s den and knowing the predator already has your scent.
The first ten minutes after we decide to stay blur past in restless, jagged motion, leaving the air tinged with burnt cedar and the metallic bite of adrenaline. The cottage radiates heat but not comfort—its stillness feels coiled, a silence so taut it seems to strain at the seams, waiting for the smallest change to snap it wide open.
The fire Nate builds spits against the silence, too small to balance the storm outside, too bright to mask the darkness pressing in. He moves through the cabin with quiet certainty—locking down the perimeter, resetting sensors, laying out the rules in that gravel-deep voice that leaves no room for negotiation. His energy winds tight as a tripwire, the kind you don’t see until it’s too late. Nothing wasted. Every tool exactly where he wants it. Every weapon close enough to draw in a breath.
Which is exactly why I start to unravel. The rigid structure, the flawless systems, the unspoken rule that everything must have its place—it needles me like a splinter under skin. I don’t do well in cages, even if they’re made of stone and good intentions. The longer I sit still, the more it feels like the walls are closing in, quiet and slow and absolute.
"Don’t touch that," he says without looking up, when I try to move one of the stacked logs near the stove to clear floor space.
I halt mid-bend, my fingers hovering over the wood. A dry laugh scrapes out before I can stop it. "Relax, it’s a log, not unexploded ordnance."
"And it’s stacked for weight distribution, not aesthetics. Move one, and the whole stack slides. You don’t want to be in front of or under it when it does."
I straighten slowly, deliberately, the tiniest bite of sarcasm curling at the edge of my restraint. If I stand any taller, I might just sprout a salute. My spine clicks into place with a silent, petty defiance I don’t bother masking. God forbid I offend the sacred geometry of log stacking. "So you’re saying I can’t even help make a fire?"
"No. I’m saying you don’t touch the stack unless you want a ten-pounder rolling onto your foot."
I bite my tongue, but the words still slip out, cutting as ever. "You always this charming when someone challenges your little kingdom?"
It slips out only a little snarkier than I intended, threaded with the kind of bite that only comes from history with someone. Because I do know him—have worked missions beside him, sparred over tactics, watched the ruthless precision and control he brings to every fight.
What I can’t stand is how much I want him for it. The same clipped orders that drove me insane when we’d worked togethernow curl low in my gut, irritation burning into something hotter I don’t want to name. Damn him.
It's not loud, but it lands harder than raised voices ever could, his gaze traveling from my damp curls to the scabbed scrape on my cheek to the clenched fists I didn’t realize I’d made.
I'd hate to think what my thoughts would get me—if a little sarcasm earns a stare that intense, God only knows what he'd do if he knew the rest. The heat. The hunger. The way my body’s reacting to him like we’re circling something inevitable. And I can’t decide if I’d fight it or beg for more.
He exhales. "You're not a guest, Wren. You're not a prisoner either. But this place runs a certain way for a reason. Disrupt that, and you compromise both of us."
My spine stiffens. "I’m not looking to compromise anything. I’m trying not to climb the walls."
"Sitrep," he says.
“What?” I say, feeling my brow furrow.
"You’re pacing, picking fights. That’s a tell. Either you need a task, or you’re dodging what you don’t want to say."
I blink. Damn him. "Both."
To his credit, he doesn’t push. Just jerks his chin toward the far wall. "Gear bin’s there. Maps on the table. If you want to help, help me mark likely ingress routes around your cabin and mine. Think like them. What would they expect you to do next?"
The change is so abrupt it throws me off balance. But having a task—something concrete, something tactical—steadies me in ways I don't expect. My breathing slows, shoulders loosening from their battle-ready knot. Focus clicks in like muscle memory, quieting the chaos in my chest. But it works. Gives me something to chew on besides my own nerves.
I settle at the table, flipping open the laminated topography sheets. I try to trace the trails, noting which are too obvious, which wind toward natural choke points, but my focus slips.The lines blur, my pulse drumming too loud in my ears. Fear still rides me, twisting into something hotter, more distracting every time Nate moves in the corner of my vision. My breathing hitches, steadies, falters again as concentration tangles with the unwanted awareness of him—his presence like heat against my skin, making it impossible to stay fully in the map in front of me.
Across from me, Nate moves with efficient precision, cleaning a weapon I’m pretty sure is older than I am. The way his fingers move—methodical, reverent, lethal—my stomach twists, traitorously hungry for reasons that have nothing to do with the weapon. Damn him. Even in the middle of a shitstorm, he’s infuriatingly composed. That maddening stillness of his makes something flutter low in my belly, a tight, hot pulse that catches me off guard. My chest prickles, breath shallow for a beat too long, like my body’s just realized how close he is—how male, how capable, how much I hate that I notice.
He is frustratingly gorgeous with his muscular build and dark brooding looks, but hell will freeze over before I admit that to him or anyone else. Not out loud any way. Not even to myself. But the awareness is there, low and pulsing through my system. It flares every time he brushes past me. Every time I catch the scent of soap and smoke and something distinctly him.
