Page 16 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
He glances up, catches me watching. My stomach flips, pulse stuttering, and I jerk my gaze back to the map so fast it nearly rattles my brain. Heat prickles up my neck, blooming across my cheeks. God, I hope he didn’t see the way I was looking at him.
"You missed a trail," he says quietly.
I force myself to refocus. "No, I ruled it out. Ridge line’s too exposed."
"They won’t care about exposure if it gives them elevation. Professionals don’t hide—they bracket. They’re hunting, not sneaking around."
I nod, throat tight, forcing the motion past the lump in it. He’s right—of course he is—and the admission tastes bitter even as a reluctant thread of relief winds through me.
Minutes stretch. The tension in the room slides from bristling to tight focus. And somewhere in that space, a strange kind of respect begins to settle in. He’s not just barking orders to feel big. He’s keeping us alive.
I hate how much his order steadies me, how it quiets the storm in my chest. He drives me insane with that rigid control, and yet every time my gaze lingers, I’m struck by how damn compelling he is—annoying as hell, and impossibly, aggravatingly attractive.Get a grip, Wren.
"You always like this?" I ask, voice lighter than I feel.
He doesn’t look up. "Define 'this.'"
"Bossy."
"Efficient."
"Controlling."
"Disciplined."
The rhythm of it lands between us like a sparring match, relentless and unbroken.
"Fine. You win."
"Not trying to."
I roll my eyes. "You realize it’s okay to let someone help without a military-grade background check first, right?"
Now he looks at me. Really looks. I brace automatically, every muscle tightening like I’m expecting a verbal strike. But I don’t look away. I meet his gaze head-on, jaw set, pulse drumming in my throat. If he’s going to challenge me, I won’t flinch first. "I know you can handle yourself, Wren. That’s not the issue. But when it comes to securing a site, there’s a reason I do things a certain way."
"And you think I’ll mess that up."
His expression hardens, then softens. "I think you're used to doing things your way. So am I. Neither of us likes ceding control. But I know this cottage and the surrounding terrain better than you."
I laugh, surprised by the honesty. "You’re not wrong."
Something changes in his eyes, stubborn pride, yes, but also the glint of recognition. He knows exactly how hard it is to trust someone else with the wheel. It’s the unspoken truth of how hard it is to lean on anyone else, how rare and raw it feels to even consider it. The look lands heavy, edged with challenge and reluctant respect, and it makes my chest tighten with equal parts relief and unease.
I lean back in the chair, arms crossed. "So what now, Commander? You give me KP duty or let me whittle sticks in the corner until I behave?"
That earns me the ghost of a smile. "Depends. Can you cook without burning the place down?"
"I make a mean venison chili and an even better cornbread to go with it."
"We’ll test that claim tomorrow. Tonight, we keep watch."
His voice drops on that last word, low and edged with a gravity that cuts straight through the fragile calm. Not a threat. Not a warning. Just the cold weight of truth settling between us—we’re not safe yet, and we both know it.
The wind outside picks up again, rattling the eaves. Somewhere in the trees, something howls—a sound too long for a wolf, too harsh for wind. It curls through the silence like smoke, cold and invasive, sinking into the marrow of my bones.
It hits something instinctive in me, pricking at the back of my neck, setting every nerve on edge. The hair along my arms lifts. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the thin walls, the dark pressing in, the vast wilderness that doesn’t care if we vanish into it. But close enough to stir something primal in my chest.
Nate rises slowly, his gaze snapping toward the sound. The easy stillness in his frame tightens, muscles bunching as if a switch has flipped—calm stripped away, replaced by the taut readiness of a predator catching scent. It’s as though he registers something I can’t quite hear, something he feels in his bones, and every line of him answers it instinctively.
