Page 18 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
But it wasn’t the only reason I walked. It was the last straw. The pull was already there—toward this place, toward work without red tape, and yeah, toward her. Wren. Stubborn, reckless, infuriating. Brave as hell. The pull had only gotten stronger.
The move to Glacier Hollow wasn’t just a change—it was a calculated step forward. A promotion with better pay, more autonomy, and for once, the chance at something that didn’t feel temporary. I’d told myself it was about the mission, the cleaner lines of command, the chance to build something solid.
But if I’m honest, it was also about her. About the way Wren had lodged herself in my thoughts, and about the ties I’d started to feel pulling me toward this place and the people in it. I wanted something real. And this—this might just be it.
Her head turns slowly. "Yours?"
"No. A kid. Not mine, but mine to protect. I failed him."
She nods like she gets it. I think she does.
"I doubt that, but I understand. Denali didn’t turn out the way I thought either," she says quietly.
I glance at her, wondering if she’ll meet my eyes, but she doesn’t. Her focus stays on the panel, precise and deliberate. Still, something in the set of her jaw tells me she’s not just thinking about circuits and signal strength. She’s remembering. And maybe, like me, she’s wondering what would’ve happenedif things had played out just a little differently back then, and what’s already changing between us now.
"We did everything right, and it still went to hell. I still hear the crack. The rope going slack."
I don’t offer comfort. Sympathy insults scars like these. Silence, though, she understands. I stay quiet, just close enough that she knows she’s not alone. She clears her throat, a harsh, deliberate sound, and turns her focus back to the wiring, but her hands move slower now, the tension in her spine unwinding by degrees.
We don’t talk for a while. The weight of memory settles between us, dense but bearable, like snow packing in tight around a trailhead—limiting, but not suffocating. It’s not just silence—it’s shared terrain. No need to fill it, no urge to escape it. The quiet stretches, not as a wedge, but as a kind of truce. One that says, 'I see you. And I’m still here.'
The storm doesn’t ease. By the second day, we’ve stopped checking the window. No tracks, no movement, no change. Just white—endless, unbroken, and disorienting.
It presses in from every angle, muting the world to a dead hush that amplifies every creak of the walls and ripple of shadow in the firelight. It’s a silence so absolute it starts to feel personal, like the mountain’s watching and waiting. The isolation worms its way under my skin, heightening everything—my guard, my instincts, and every last thread of awareness when Wren moves beside me. She’s close enough that her breath stirs the air. Close enough that focus takes effort.
I’ve double-checked every ration and mapped out supply use to the hour. The wood is stacked high, dry and close to the hearth. Water’s accounted for, with snow ready to melt if needed. We’re sealed in tight—nothing and no one’s getting through this weather unnoticed. But that doesn’t mean we’re alone. If they’re still out there, they’re waiting, watching, usingthe storm the same way we are: to regroup. The silence isn’t safety. It’s a tactic—same one I’d use. Let the weather pin the target in place, then close when they’re worn thin.
Wren doesn’t ask if she can go outside, but the tension radiating from her is impossible to ignore. She moves in short, agitated strides across the room, every step tight with purpose. Her gaze flicks to the door with the regularity of a metronome, jaw set, fingers flexing like she’s trying to work the tension out of her skin.
I see the question behind her eyes—unspoken, but louder with every lap. She’s restless as hell, strung tight and wearing it openly now. And I get it. Being trapped this long with no outlet grinds on the nerves, and Wren’s not built for stillness. She needs motion, needs space. The fact that she’s holding it together at all tells me more than she probably realizes.
At mid-afternoon, I spread the topography maps across the kitchen table again, the weight of them grounding me in something tangible. Wren is already there, close enough that I feel the press of her presence before I register her movement.
We've been refining ingress routes—any path someone might take to either of our places without being seen—but it's more than logistics now. The longer we linger over the maps, the more I feel the crackle in the air, the change in our focus.
She leans over beside me, one hand braced on the edge of the table, the other reaching toward the same quadrant I’m tracing. Her shoulder brushes mine, close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin radiating through the space between us. A whisper of her hair catches the light, drawing my eye, and I swear the air tightens between us. The storm may have trapped us here, held us in place, but something far more volatile is stirring now, and it sure as hell isn’t tactical.
Our fingers brush—just a spark, but it jolts low and fast, every nerve wired hot. My hand wants more. I hold the line.Barely. Another brush of her skin, another second of that charged connection, and I’ll be lost. It's not just a fleeting impulse; it’s a gut-deep need for reassurance that what’s humming between us is mutual, not imagined. My muscles tighten, jaw locking against the urge to close the distance again, to chase the warmth she left behind.
The jolt of heat that arcs between our fingers is sudden, immediate. It’s almost like the charged snap of static electricity—biting, alive, crackling against my skin. It rushes up my arm, sets every nerve on edge, and anchors me to the spot. Her touch isn’t hesitant, but it’s not bold either; it lingers somewhere in between, as if neither of us is ready to admit what this is becoming. My hand doesn’t move.
Hers doesn’t either. The air between us hums with tension, and the storm outside suddenly feels like background noise to the one building right here, skin to skin.
Her breath catches, sudden and jagged, like her body’s trying to betray what she won’t say out loud. She looks away quickly, but not before I catch the flicker in her eyes—a hesitation, a pull—and I swear I feel it echo down my spine. I don’t move. Can’t. Every instinct tells me not to break the moment, even as it fractures around the edges.
It’s not a moment that should matter. Not one that should linger. But it does. Her shoulder is warm next to mine, her scent all soap and cedar smoke and something wilder underneath, something that makes my restraint grit its teeth and brace.
Her fingers linger on the map, deliberate and steady. I let mine drift, slow and careful, brushing hers again—just enough contact to feel the spark but not enough to make it obvious. Heat coils low in my gut, low and visceral, as if that single point of contact wires straight to something primal. I don’t pull away. I just... stay.
"This trail here..." she says, voice low, but a fraction rougher than before.
"Yeah. Could be a backdoor. Ridges give partial cover. But they’d still have to cross the gulley."
She nods, not looking up. We’re both still staring at the map like it holds the answer to something bigger than patrol routes. I can feel the tension in her body, the way it’s not just tactical now. Not just fear. There’s heat threaded through it. Awareness. A pull I’ve been fighting from the second she landed on my doorstep.
She finally straightens, her spine unfolding with a quiet resolve. I rise too, slower, unwilling to sever the invisible thread stretched taut between us—a tether spun from heat, tension, and the unspoken weight of what almost happened.
"We’ll mark it," I say.
