Page 21 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
Outside, the storm claws at the world, tearing branches and covering tracks. If they’re out there, they’ll hear nothing but the wind. But inside, something louder has already broken loose—heat and gravity we can’t take back, a fire more dangerous than the cold pressing at the walls.
8
NATE
The satphone crackles the second we step back inside the cottage, the howl of wind fading behind me as I shoulder the door shut behind us. Snow hisses off my jacket in soft plumes, the sudden warmth inside hitting my skin like a low-grade burn. The air is quiet—predator quiet, the kind that coils in your gut a split second before impact. The satphone spits static again and snaps me back.
I hear the barest wisp of hissing before it clears into Ranger Breckman’s clipped voice. "Barrett, you copy?"
I cross to the table, click the receiver. "Copy. Go ahead."
"Flyover picked up thermal anomalies ten miles out. Southeast ridge near Split Rock. Pattern’s consistent with human movement. Not wildlife."
A cold knot pulls tight in my gut, the kind that comes just before contact. They're not just near, they’ve crossed the goddamn boundary. Closer than protocol, closer than comfort. I scan the room instinctively, already replotting defensive routes, exit plans, and fallback positions. My pulse drops low and steady, the way it always does before a fight.
"You get a count?"
"Hard to tell in this storm. Minimum three. Possibly more."
Wren steps into the room behind me, having changed into a fresh thermal layer. Her eyes are keen despite the flush still high on her cheeks, a striking contrast that makes my breath catch. That heated color, blooming across her cheekbones, drags my attention even as I try to focus.
She’s a goddamn distraction—keen eyes, steady hands—and the memory of her mouth on mine makes the rest hit harder. The pulse of awareness radiates between us. That spark of heat twists through me again, not just desire but the restless ache of unfinished business.
I feel it land low in my gut—a hot, coiled weight that flares brighter the second I register her face. My breath hitches just enough to notice, a subtle stutter I try to bury beneath the task at hand.
A pull, not just desire, but something more tangled. I don't touch her, but damn if every part of me doesn't want to. It flashes through me again—her breath against my skin, the taste of her mouth, the way her body yielded and fought at once.
My fingers flex once, then curl into a fist—tight, controlled. A rough surge of instinct claws up my spine, raw and immediate, the need to reach for her barely kept in check. It’s not just reflex. It’s possession. Protection. Instinct as old as bone.
My muscles tense, bracing against the pull, but it lingers—low and dangerous., instinct tugging toward her, but I force them still. The space feels charged now, as if the air itself hasn’t forgotten what passed between us. Neither have I.
In the shed, she tried to pull back. I told her not to. Still, it lingers between us now, tangible as breath, wound tight like a wire under skin. I see it in the way her posture alters when our eyes catch, in the spark of something raw that fills the silence we don’t quite break.
Part of me wants to push, to close the space and drag it into the open, but another part, the part clenched tight in my chest,knows the fire between us isn’t done smoldering yet. Not even close. The air between us is heavier now. Not with regret, but with a new kind of weight. Real. Unavoidable.
"I appreciate the heads up," I say. "We’ll stay sharp. Check back in an hour?"
"Affirmative. Breckman out."
I lower the satphone, the final click still echoing faintly in the room. When I turn, Wren’s already watching me, her eyes locked on mine, posture alert. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. The way her gaze narrows, chin tilting almost imperceptibly, says she’s already read the situation clear as day... ten seconds ahead of me.
A pulse kicks hard behind my breastbone—steady, hot, and unrelenting. Not fear. It's the charge behind her stare, the unspoken tension winding tighter with every second she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The storm brewing in her expression says more than words ever could, demanding, fierce, impossible to ignore. My skin tightens in response, the space between us humming like it’s seconds from combustion.
“They’re close,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t blink. “How close?”
"About ten miles out. Too close." I grab my sidearm, check the chamber, re-holster.
“That’s not that close on foot in a blizzard,” she points out blandly.
I eye her with annoyance. "Too close for my liking. We stick together. No exceptions."
She lifts her chin, arms folding with a deliberate snap that draws my gaze to the rigid line of her posture. It’s not just defiance—it’s control. Her spine straightens, shoulders tightening like she’s preparing for a blow she won’t let land. There’s heat behind the move, yes, but also a hard edge ofrestraint. I feel it settle between us, an electric hum beneath the tension already simmering in the room.
Her eyes lock onto mine, glittering with a dare I feel in the tightening of my gut. The room contracts around her, her defiance as tangible as the heat still coiled low in my spine. It’s not just a challenge. It’s provocation—sharp, deliberate—and it slides under my skin like a blade.
"Do you think I was about to go take a walk and wave a flare around? Maybe sketch a target on my forehead while I was at it?"
